


Affogato

by mnabokov



Series: 176° Centigrade (世界) [3]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Baking, Cooking, Drama, Guns, Implied Sexual Content, Italy, M/M, Threats of Violence, Traveling, gelato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 16:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: Jongin comes clean, as best he can. Sehun finds Italian food. Lots of it.





	1. Chapter 1

Oh Sehun -- self-proclaimed amateur hacker, lover of all pastries, breads, sweets, and other bakery items; currently an employee of Mr. Kim (the older one) and Mr. Kim (the younger one), but former occupations include: being an actuary, penetration-tester (yeah, it sounds funny, but it means that he finds vulnerabilities in computer systems, and it’s _important,_  okay), software engineer, and accountant, not in that order -- is worried.  
  
The last twenty-four hours of his life have been a series of continual inversions:  
  
First, Jongin had been reduced to sniffles and tears when Sehun presented him with a simple reservation for ballet lessons, and Sehun came the closest he’d been to crying in front of someone else since first grade;  
  
Then, he found out that the company he’s working for and its illegal dealings were going to be exposed for public ridicule;  
  
_Then,_  Jongin prioritized Sehun’s emotional state over the financial well-being of his _company --_ _  
_ _  
_ Yeah, a rollercoaster.  
  
Anyway, Sehun’s worried about Jongin. Neither of them has mentioned the EXO scandal since they left Seoul. Sehun doesn’t want to bring it up, but he doesn’t want Jongin to feel any more guilt, either.  
  
“Hey,” Sehun says quietly, reaching across the table and touching Jongin’s wrist.  
  
They’re sitting at a cafe, sipping caffè macchiatos. Italy, or what Sehun’s seen of it so far, is beautiful. Currently, they’re underneath a small awning, drenched in white sunlight. Around them, locals chat in Italian. The smell of coffee and eggs wafts tantalizingly in the air; and thin cobblestone streets stretch out before them.  
  
“Hey yourself,” Jongin replies easily. He looks away from the view in front of them: a small, open piazza, littered with tourists and scrolling locals; across them are colorful buildings with scraggly vines crawling over metal balcony railings.  
  
Jongin smiles, charming and open; Sehun thinks that it’s a facade, but still can’t get over how handsome Jongin is. He’s wearing an open white shirt, glowing, basking in this Venetian sunlight.  
  
Jongin’s been through a lot -- too much -- and Sehun aches for him.  
  
Before Sehun can reply, he goes, “You have cream on your lip.”  
  
Sehun’s hand goes up automatically to wipe at it.  
  
“Here,” Jongin says. He leans over the table, starchy shirt shifting to reveal the dip of his throat and his tanned collarbones. Jongin cups a hand around Sehun’s chin, slowly drags his thumb across the seam of Sehun’s mouth. His touch, slow and seductive, never fails to earn a heated look from Sehun.  
  
Jongin pulls back with a smirk. His fingers come away clean.  
  
“Liar,” Sehun huffs. He has to sip at his coffee to hide his growing smile.  
  
“I just wanted to touch you,” Jongin says.  
  
Sehun puts his coffee down and wipes his mouth carefully with a napkin. Jongin watches the whole thing with half-lidded eyes.  
  
“You don’t have to ask.”  
  
Jongin replies simply, “I want to.”  
  
There’s a loud giggle that floats to their table as two little girls, probably no older than five or six years old, walk by, hand in hand, with their parents. Judging by the cameras and selfies, they’re tourists.  
  
Jongin watches them. Sehun watches Jongin.  
  
“I was like that, like a kid,” Jongin says distractedly. “Loved holding hands.”  
  
“With who?”  
  
“Anyone.” Jongin shrugs.  
  
Sehun takes the last sip of his coffee. “I hated it.”  
  
“We must have been very different children.”  
  
“Maybe. I remember having a sweet tooth, even then.”  
  
Jongin laughs sweetly. “I can imagine.”  
  
For a while, they exchange stories. They both stay with relatively light memories. Jongin tells of the time he swam in the ocean with his cousins, and got sunburnt for the first time; Sehun talks about the very first thing he baked with his mother, melonpan.  
  
“What,” Jongin says, when Sehun looks at him.  
  
“Nothing, I just -- ” he shrugs. “I can’t believe we’re here. I mean,” he waves a hand around them. It sounds strange, and Sehun wouldn’t say this aloud, but he can’t believe that he’s alive, right here, right now, that he’s drinking coffee with this man in this country, talking about this.  
  
“Yeah,” Jongin agrees. “Yeah.” He drains the last of his coffee. Though they’re both finished, they sit a little. Lingering.  
  
More time passes.  
  
Sehun doesn’t know how long, doesn’t care. Eventually, he takes his napkin off his lap and puts it on the table. Jongin waves for the waiter and the bill.  
  
(For some reason, this often happens: this sort of unspoken agreement or unvoiced conversation. Sehun doesn’t know why, but sometimes they just don’t _have_ to talk. It’s easy, unlike anything Sehun’s ever had with anyone else.)  
  
They walk back to the hotel. “Venice is a walking city,” Jongin says expertly as they walk, step for step. “All the palaces and churches? Those are all from a history of trade -- between Europe and Asia.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sehun entertains Jongin, even though he knows that this is from an article Jongin read on the plane-ride over. (Neither of them have been to Venice before.)  
  
“Yeah,” Jongin smiles. They reach the canals, which lie before them in a shimmering blue roadway. “It’s the city of canals and waterways.” Jongin leans into Sehun to point out the narrow rowing boats floating on the water. “Those are gondolas. And those,” he points to the small figures manning the boats, rowing patrons along smoothly, “Are gondoliers.”  
  
For a moment they watch a gondola serenely slide over the water. The faint sound of conversation and water lapping echoes in the quiet canals.  
  
They reach the hotel after another few minutes.  
  
Sehun is still dumbstruck by how _pretty_ it is. The outer facade faces a shallow canal; the sun hits the water just right, illuminating each ripple and lighting up the row of gondolas anchored by the walkway, waiting to ferry tourists, who amble in and out of the lobby.  
  
Inside, everything is rich and opulent: gold columns curve into high arches, blending into an elaborate, gilded ceiling; the staircase is wide and draped with a thick red carpet. A thick bouquet of purple and blue flowers rests in a marble vase. They walk past the main lounge, which features an ornate fireplace that stretches from floor to ceiling, with carved marble figurines decorating the mantle.  
  
Their room, located higher up, requires them to take the four steps of sunlit stairs in the atrium. Jongin holds open the door for Sehun and taps his ass lightly when Sehun walks in.  
  
Inside their suite, everything is gold. Heavy curtains hang from the ceiling, parted to reveal a view of the canals and landscape beyond. The walls are patterned in a gold damask style, curled flowers and fleur de lis stretching across the room. Armchairs with decorated feet and rich purple carpets decorate the living space; a bowl of red roses sits perfectly on the coffee table. Dark oil paintings set in massive bronze frames hang from the walls, and a glass chandelier glitters spectacularly.  
  
They wander into the bedroom.  
  
Sunlight spills into the room, touching the canopy curtains, which are pale and translucent, draping over the edges of the golden headboard. Set into the ceiling is what looks like an actual fresco painting, like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  
  
They shuck their shoes and clothes, climbing back into bed. It’s easy to pretend that the outside world, the real world which they flew out of on a Boeing 787 just a day before, does not exist. Sehun loosely loops his arms around Jongin’s waist, drawing his knees up to tuck them behind Jongin’s.  
  
Exhausted, they sleep the sleep of children.  
  
  
  
Venice feels like a dream. A surreal, sunlit dream.  
  
They walk hand in hand. No one recognizes them here, two tourists in a city of tourists, two lovers in a city of lovers; if anyone does, no one cares. They both avoid reading the news, preferring to promenade down the waterways, adjacent to rocking gondolas. From St Mark's Basilica to la Piazza to the Grand Canal, through narrow alleys and over stone footbridges, they walk.  
  
Sometimes they talk -- about history or culture. Jongin loves the idea of it, walking in the same city, strolling down the same cobblestone streets that traders from the Orient did, that people from hundreds and hundreds of years ago did. His hands fly through the air like birds as he explains history, how Venice was built, the art, the music, the people.  
  
And in turn, Sehun drags them to a variety of cafes every morning, to sample every kind of espresso, cappuccino, and caffè corretto, along with fresh pastries, rolled oats, and light conversation. For lunch, they’ll explore pizzerias and local restaurants: zucchini salads, olive bread and calamari with fennel and lemon. They sample fine sausage and meat dishes in butcher’s shops.  
  
In the evening, Jongin likes to have dinner on the rooftop terrace, where they can sit and eat and watch the sun set. The sky turns blue and purple before fading to pastel; the whole thing has the quality of a memory, feels like a breath -- short-lived, but fresh.  
  
They try everything, from antipasti (kinds of appetizers) of seafood -- baby octopus, squid, anchovy, and shrimp -- to sea bass and linguini with clam sauce; creamy polenta and risotto; to eggplant and mozzarella salad with red onion focaccia bread. Every fish dish is seasoned simply but deliciously with olive oil, garlic, vinegar, parsley, and other herbs. Between the two of them, they share a bottle of fine wine every night.  
  
One memorable afternoon, they stumble upon an old cafe in a sunny promenade. Sehun orders two affogatos -- a scoop of vanilla gelato floating in hot Italian espresso -- for them to share. Purple wisteria flowers crawl over the window flower boxes across the street, spilling out of the stone cracks in the building’s facade. The scene resembles an oil painting, like someone painted in bushy bougainvillea with paper-thin brushstrokes of magenta; dragged titanium white over the blue sky in broad, sweeping strokes to create clouds. Timeless.  
  
They don't have a kitchen, so Sehun can’t recreate most recipes; but he documents everything as best as he can, creating a folder with subdivisions for pastries, breads, cakes, and cookies. Jongin teases him but Sehun presses on. Organization is key, and he hates having messy files.  
  
Between half-hearted arguments over semantics and dissections of conversations over dinner and enthusiastic sex in the evenings, they lose days in what seems like a blink of an eye.  
  
They should’ve known -- or perhaps they knew, and just ignored it -- that it wouldn’t last long.  
  
  
  
Here are their last few hours of quiet -- the calm before the storm.  
  
It goes something like this:  
  
“What’re you reading,” Jongin mumbles blearily, his lips brushing against Sehun’s bicep. They’re sprawled out on the enormous bed, wearing nothing but the hotel sheets.  
  
“Your book,” Sehun says. His chin’s tucked on his pillow, his front smothered against the mattress as he lies on his belly and reads. He flips a page.  
  
To be more precise, he’s reading about historical Venetian trade. Sounds dull at first, but Sehun finds the trade -- historic bartering with Egypt and China and the far east, an exchange of textiles and silks for porcelain and pearl, peacock feathers and exotic wines, salts, and spices -- interesting.  
  
“That’s nice,” Jongin says. Then he promptly takes Sehun’s soft cock into his mouth.  
  
Sehun swears and puts down the book.  
  
At this point, Jongin knows him well enough that he presses on all the right spots, curls his tongue just around the tip of the head of Sehun’s cock, and bobs his head up and down, brutally efficient as Sehun comes in record time.  
  
Jongin swallows happily. He makes a pleased noise, like a kitten. Sehun pats his head absently then picks up his book again as Jongin kisses his shoulderblade.  
  
Vaguely Sehun registers that Jongin’s dragging a tongue down his spine, but in the 1300s, Venice was a pioneer in glassblowing technology, already known back then for their beautiful stained glass and other glassware. Sehun flips to the next page, eyes scanning quickly.  
  
A nibble on Sehun’s inner thigh irritates him. Sehun huffs in annoyance, then spreads his legs in compliance. Jongin’s tongue traces a wet trail.  
  
“Are you going to put that book down?” Jongin asks.  
  
“Uh huh.” Sehun looks up a word on his phone before continuing to read.  
  
Jongin makes a noise of irritation before redoubling his efforts, nosing his way up Sehun’s ass and squeezing two handfuls of Sehun’s thighs before kissing and sucking and slurping at Sehun’s hole.  
  
Sehun puts his phone down and turns the page.  
  
The maritime empire of Venice had grown out of distinct advantages -- access to salt and timber (which was growing on the Alps and the coast), as well as its situation between Western Europe and what was then the Ottoman Empire. Venice, in medieval times, was the intermediary between east and west, an intersection of an historic exchange of culture and food and money.  
  
“Sehun,” Jongin whines, interrupting Sehun’s concentration.  
  
Waspishly, Sehun puts down the book. “What?” he says, although he fights to hide his smirk.  
  
Jongin presses a childish kiss against Sehun’s neck. “Please let me fuck you.”  
  
“I’m here for the taking,” Sehun points out. To emphasize, he wiggles his butt a bit.  
  
Jongin bites a patch of skin playfully. He smacks Sehun’s hip, and Sehun rolls over obediently, spreads his legs.  
  
Sehun is loose and well-stretched from all the sex they’ve gotten out of their system lately; it doesn’t take more than a grunt and a push for Jongin’s cock to slip in.  
  
Jongin moans and his eyes slide shut. His hips rock slowly, lovingly. It reminds Sehun of the sex they had had last night -- and _oh_ , that was good: Jongin had taken his time opening Sehun up, until Sehun was a sprawling, moaning mess, and then he’d thrust deliberately slow and deep, until they both came like the cresting and crashing of an ocean wave. Last night was full of murmured whispers, gentle and romantic and unhurried.  
  
This? Well, with Sehun’s book waiting for him, this seems like they’re just going through the motions.  
  
Jongin’s eyes snap open when Siri reads aloud the meaning of the word _palatial_. She defines it as “resembling a palace in being spacious and splendid.”  
  
“Should I be offended?” Jongin asks, mid-thrust, churlish.  
  
“Well,” Sehun drawls out, looking up from his Wikipedia article. Recklessness thrums in his throat, loosens his voice. Sehun’s itching for a rough fight, a hard fuck. “Maybe if you fucked better, I wouldn’t have to resort to reading a history book to entertain myself.”  
  
“Okay,” Jongin says mildly.  
  
Sehun puts down his phone.  
  
“Okay,” Jongin says again, mellow, but firm.  
  
“Okay?” Sehun raises an eyebrow mockingly.  
  
Jongin smirks dangerously.  
  
They end up on the floor -- Jongin growls and yanks Sehun off the bed, the two of them collapsing in a tangle of limbs on the carpet. Aforementioned carpet is uncomfortable against Sehun’s skin but he doesn’t care; the pain blurs into pleasure when Jongin grips Sehun by the hair, by the neck, pushing Sehun’s shoulders down and yanking Sehun’s hips up until the front of his body’s mashed into the floor.  
  
Jongin’s entire body blankets Sehun’s; Jongin’s pinning him down, smothering him with the weight and it’s so good --  
  
Jongin’s hissing in Sehun’s ear, snarling about how Sehun’s a mouthy brat and, “I’m gonna pound you, fuck you so hard,” and Sehun keeps goading, “Yeah?” and “Well, maybe if you were a better lay,” and “Fucking _show me_ , Jongin -- ”  
  
Since the expanse of floor beneath Sehun is unmoving, there’s nowhere for him to go; he’s pinned down and knows that there will be bruises on his hipbones and elbows but Sehun can’t stop from whimpering sweetly as Jongin bites down the line of Sehun’s spine, lines up his cock teasingly.  
  
“Get on with it,” Sehun grunts into the floor, as the head of Jongin’s cock circles Sehun’s rim.  
  
“What was that?” Jongin asks sweetly, saccharine.  
  
“I fucking hate you,” Sehun groans, “God, if you’re going to fuck me, then at least have the decency to do it right -- ”  
  
They end up fucking on the floor, like that: Sehun pinned to the ground, feeling every ripple of muscle as Jongin snaps his hips in a punishing rhythm. Sehun moans into the carpet -- he hates it and he loves it and he _loves_ it --  
  
Anyway, long story short, that’s why they end up knocking out so early. Sehun falls asleep completely content, but the way he wakes is a different matter.  
  
  
  
The next morning Sehun wakes to a sharp rapping on the door.  
  
He rolls over, and mutters, “Can you get that?”  
  
When Jongin doesn’t reply, Sehun cracks an eye open. The incessant knocking, unfortunately, continues.  
  
The bed is empty. A quick glance confirms that the bathroom is as well; Jongin’s probably gone on a walk, like he sometimes does in the mornings when Sehun sleeps late.  
  
Sehun grabs his phone to check the time -- much too early -- and sees a text from Jongin. But before he can read it, the knocking grows louder, and more rapid.  
  
Grumbling in annoyance, Sehun gets up and snags a white bathrobe to preserve his modesty. As he stalks towards the door, he unlocks his phone to read the text, which consists of a single word.  
  
_Bangkok_  
  
Sehun’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.  
  
Absently, Sehun opens the door.  
  
(Bangkok. A city that they visited together. A safeword.)  
  
“Hi,” says a young-looking Korean man. “Where’s your boyfriend?”  
  
Sehun has never been more grateful for the fact that he was born with approximately four facial expressions.  
  
“What?” Sehun says flatly.  
  
Bangkok. Safeword.  
  
_Safeword_.  
  
“Don’t play dumb,” the man says. He’s wearing a fur-lined coat that looks much too warm for Italian weather. “Where is he?”  
  
Sehun’s throat tightens. “I think you have the wrong room,” he starts to pull the door shut, but the stranger sticks a foot out to jam the door open.  
  
“Where’s Kai?” the man repeats, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Stop pretending.”  
  
“Jiyong, this is a waste of time,” a man behind the first one mutters. Sehun steps back and takes a good look at the two men dressed in dark clothes behind Jiyong: they’re tall and they look like _thugs,_  like someone hired them or something and Sehun can’t think right now because Jongin’s not here and --  
  
_If you want me to stop_ , Jongin had said at one point, some time ago, _say Bangkok_.  
  
“This guy’s just a fucking escort, he doesn’t know anything,” one of the thugs continues. Sehun prays that his face remains unreadable.  
  
“Kai,” the first man, Jiyong, insists. “He was staying in this hotel suite. You were _here_ with him, how can you not know?”  
  
“Hey,” Sehun snaps, when Jiyong shoulders his way into the hotel room, but then the other guys, the bodyguards, push forward as well. Sehun can’t fucking fight them off -- hell, he can’t even break out of Jongin’s grip in bed, how the fuck can he --  
  
“You’re an escort?” Jiyong scans the room, taking in the rumpled bed, the tray from room service.  
  
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Sehun seethes.  
  
_Tell me to stop_ , Jongin had said, _tell me to_ \--  
  
“You must be pretty good,” Jiyong turns around to look at Sehun again, “Because unless you’re hiding an Italian visa somewhere, Kai brought you all the way from Korea.” Jiyong drags his gaze over Sehun.  
  
Sehun flushes and wraps his bathrobe tighter around himself. “Fuck off,” he snarls.  
  
There is a man with two thugs, in his hotel room, looking for Jongin. No, looking for _Kai_ ; and the man thinks Sehun is a fucking escort because, of course, Sehun’s only wearing this stupid fucking bathrobe and his hair’s all rucked up, lips swollen, and there’re bruises marring his neck and chest from the absolutely _vicious_ fucking that Jongin gave him last night --  
  
Jiyong leers. “Sorry, princess.”  
  
_Safeword._    
  
“Why are you looking for him anyway?” Sehun snaps. He can salvage this, wait for Jongin to get back, and in the meantime --  
  
Jiyong cocks his head. “Business. We work together.” He smiles an unfriendly smile.  
  
“Tell me why you want him and I’ll help you find him,” Sehun challenges.  
  
“You? Help us? What good can you do?”  
  
“Well, I certainly got closer to him than you did,” Sehun sneers.  
  
Jiyong raises an eyebrow. “So he _did_ pay you to sleep with him.”  
  
“Why do you want to see him?”  
  
“Why would you help us?”  
  
Sehun frowns. “Do you know how escort services work?” he bullshits, “Half the money before, half the money after. If you idiots hadn’t shown up, then maybe he would’ve paid me my other half.”  
  
Jiyong narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”  
  
“Really?” Sehun says, voice high because he’s desperate, clutching at this lie, clinging onto it, “Okay. Fine. Get out then.”  
  
“How did he meet you, Sehun?”  
  
“I’m not going to justify myself to -- ”  
  
_How did he meet you, Sehun?_  
  
Sehun.  
  
_Safe_ \--  
  
“What do you want from me,” Sehun backs up. In his ribs, his heart is fluttering, like a bird trapped in a cage.  
  
“Tell me what you know about Kai. Whatever he told you, how ever you know him, he’s not the man he claims to be.”  
  
“At least he has the decency to introduce myself and not _barge into my hotel room_!”  
  
“Sehun,” Jiyong holds up a placating hand.  
  
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Sehun hisses, and he resolutely does not ask how Jiyong knows his name. Jiyong says his name deliberately, like he knows it’ll piss off Sehun. It’s a show of power --  
  
“Or what?”  
  
Sehun’s back hits the couch. “Were you hired to do this?” Sehun’s voice sounds shrill, even to his own ears. “Looking for some quick cash?”  
  
Jiyong snarls, “Just tell me where Kai is -- ”  
  
“If you were smart enough, you’d realize I don’t know _anything about him_ ,” Sehun spits.  
  
“Jiyong,” one of the other cronies says, emerging from the bedroom. Sehun hadn’t even noticed him go in. “Place is clean. Nothing here.”  
  
“Nothing?” Jiyong demands.  
  
“Just his clothes,” the thug jerks his head toward Sehun.  
  
“Well,” Jiyong says wryly, looking from the messy and stained bedsheets to the red shiny mark on Sehun’s neck.  
  
“Believe me now?” Sehun raises his chin in a show of confidence he does not have. He crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
“No,” Jiyong says. “I think you know more than you’re letting on, and you don’t want to tell us. But let me reassure you, we aren’t the bad guys here. We’re just trying to talk to Jongin -- ”  
  
“By barging into his hotel room and interrogating me?”  
  
“You’re the one in the room,” Jiyong points out.  
  
“Are we finished?” Sehun demands.  
  
“You tell us where he is, and we’ll let you go.”  
  
“You’ll _let_ me go.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jiyong taps his hip impatiently. “Now, Sehun -- ”  
  
“Get out,” Sehun snaps suddenly.  
  
“We aren’t done,” Jiyong says, dangerously low, but Sehun needs -- he needs to think -- and --  
  
“Fine,” Sehun says tersely, “Then you can explain yourself to the hotel staff why you’ve barged into my room and invaded my personal belongings when room service comes up in about,” Sehun pretends to check his phone, “Oh, three minutes.”  
  
“What -- ”  
  
“I ordered breakfast, you idiot,” Sehun snarls, “Unless you want me to report you to -- ”  
  
Jiyong darts forward in a flash, grabbing Sehun by the loose material of his white bathrobe. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’ll have much more to lose than whatever Kai’s promised to pay you. We’re watching your room, the hotel, so don’t even think -- ”  
  
Sehun knees Jiyong in the gut and elbows his chest. “Don’t fucking touch me,” Sehun hisses. “Now get out.”  
  
Jiyong lets go with a wince. “If you aren’t done with your breakfast in bed shit in an hour, I’m coming back up here and -- ”  
  
“Yeah,” Sehun says. “Whatever. Get out.”  
  
  
  
Sunlight spills into the empty hotel suite. Sehun’s heart is pounding, throbbing, echoing and it feels like his chest is hollow, empty; Sehun can’t _understand_ \--  
  
Shut up, Sehun tells himself, as he sits shakily on the chaise lounge or whatever the fuck the fancy-ass couch is called. Assess the facts. Organize your thoughts. Sehun grabs the bottle of brandy sitting on the small table and takes a messy swing. Some of it spills on his chest. He doesn’t care.  
  
The first thing he does is actually order room service. He gets everything remotely appetizing on the menu, along with a bottle of wine, because why not? It’s not his tab, and Jongin owes him that much, at least.  
  
Then he tries to organize his thoughts.  
  
Jongin is gone. True.  
  
Jongin is not dead. Probably true? Because Jongin texted him this morning at -- Sehun checks his phone -- 7:28AM. Two hours ago. Jongin had texted one word: _Bangkok_.  
  
Sehun doesn’t know what that means. Mostly false -- he can guess; it’s their safeword, a fallback. Something’s happened -- probably with EXO --  
  
Okay. Okay, Jiyong has most likely been hired to find Jongin. True. Probably because of the events of EXO. True. Sehun takes another swing of alcohol. And then another.  
  
Sehun can keep playing stupid, act just like an escort that Jongin had hired. If Jongin hadn’t bothered to text an explanation, then that means he’s on the fucking _run._  It’s straight out of the cheesy plot of an overpriced but trashy spy novel you buy while waiting at the airport for a delayed flight on a layover.  
  
Sehun snorts hysterically to himself. Here he is, sitting in the middle of the most expensive suite in one of the high star resorts in Venice, drinking at nine in the morning. His boss slash bootycall (with no labels but some feelings) is either a) kidnapped, b) on the run even though he is innocent in an epic, misled international manhunt for laundered money, or c) has lied and is actually running from an international manhunt because he _has_ illegally obtained vast sums of money; _or_ , d) some combination of the above is true.  
  
This is a terrible fucking situation.  
  
Mostly definitely, one-hundred percent true.  
  
  
  
When Jiyong bangs on the door to the hotel suite exactly an hour later, Sehun’s mostly composed himself.  
  
He’s wearing clothes, at least: a pair of black pants and a shirt. A gilded cart sits in the corner of the room, and on top of it a variety of brunch foods: fig salad, fresh fruits, rich soups, pastries, and champagne.  
  
“Ready to talk?” Jiyong says, stepping into the room and sitting on the expensive-looking couch as if it’s his own home. He’s wearing the same fur-lined parka over a gray suit. Sehun hates him.  
  
“That depends on what you tell me,” Sehun smiles sharply.  
  
“Look kid,” Jiyong says, manspreading like the asshole he is, “You’re a hooker Kai found off the street. Whatever he offered to pay you, I can pay you better, and get out of your way. Tell me everything he told you and you’ll be on your way.”  
  
Sehun challenges, “And if I have nothing to tell you? If I say that Kai said nothing to me?”  
  
Jiyong flashes an unsympathetic smile and reaches for the champagne. He pours two glasses and Sehun ignores him. “You’re here from Korea. Given enough time, I’ll be able to find your flight number. I’ll cancel it. I’ll put your name on the no-fly list. Don’t test me.”  
  
“And how will you justify that? If you try to link me back to EXO, that won’t work -- that whole set-up was illegal, you can’t go to any self-respecting government and blacklist me on those grounds.”  
  
Jiyong freezes.  
  
The champagne fizzes.  
  
“How do you know about EXO?”  
  
_Fuck._    
  
Without thinking much of it, Sehun takes a glass of bubbly and sips at it to buy himself time. He hadn’t meant to slip up, but he can’t alarm Jiyong either. “How do you think?” Sehun counters, calmly despite his inner panic.  
  
Jiyong puts down the champagne bottle. “You worked at EXO? As -- what, a server? A dancer?”  
  
Sehun swallows another gulp of champagne. His head pounds. Dryly, he asks, “Does it matter?”  
  
“And that’s how you know Kai,” Jiyong muses, seemingly to himself.  
  
Sehun inwardly curses. That’s a piece of information -- though half false -- that Sehun shouldn’t have inadvertently revealed about himself. But he’ll try and work this to his advantage. “Alright,” Sehun says sourly, “There’s what I know. Now you tell me: who hired you, and why do you want Kai?”  
  
“Why do you care for him so much?” Jiyong tilts his head.  
  
“If you’re after him because of his association with EXO, then I should be worried too, shouldn’t I?”  
  
“You’re just a worker.”  
  
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Sehun counters. “That I don’t have money? That I can’t do any trading? Or that I don’t matter?”  
  
Jiyong carefully doesn’t answer. “I could do it. I could put you on Interpol’s watch list. Want to try?”  
  
Sehun wants to roll his eyes. Curtly, he answers, “Do it.”  
  
Jiyong’s expression is unreadable. Sehun wants to challenge him to a fucking game of poker. “I will,” Jiyong takes a small sip of bubbly, “If you don’t cooperate with me.”  
  
Sehun actually rolls his eyes. “This is getting nowhere.”  
  
“I’m trying very hard to be patient,” Jiyong says.  
  
“Hang in there a little longer,” Sehun retorts. “Now you answer my questions.”  
  
“Why do you think someone hired me?”  
  
“Did someone hire you?”  
  
Jiyong reaches into his jacket pocket and Sehun flinches, jerking back before realizing that he’s too slow -- can’t outrun a _gun --_  
  
A wad of cash hits the table. Jiyong smirks and loops his hands into his pockets. Sehun closes his eyes and quietly remembers he’s very lucky to be alive.  
  
“There’s enough there for a flight back to Korea, first class. Probably with enough left over to buy yourself a nice laptop, and a new phone, too. Tell me what I want and it’s yours.”  
  
“That isn’t my price,” Sehun says lowly.  
  
“I want to trust you, Sehun. But I get the feeling that you’re lying to me. And I’ll figure out what you’re hiding. I won’t kill you, but I won’t make your life easy, either.”  
  
“Try taking a look at this from my perspective,” Sehun says, letting a bit of hysteria leak into his voice, “I’m trying to earn some cash, minding my own business. I wake up one day with my client -- who I followed halfway across the globe and who still needs to pay me -- gone, and a strange man knocking on my door. He interrogates me, physically assaults me, and threatens to strand me in Italy as an international fugitive. How would you feel?”  
  
“I do apologize for that,” Jiyong waves a hand dismissively, “I admit that was unprofessional of me -- ”  
  
“You’re admitting this is your profession?”  
  
“But this involves many more people than you could imagine, Sehun,” Jiyong speaks slowly, placatingly, like he’s trying to communicate to a child, “And it’s important that we know where Kai is.”  
  
Sehun grits his teeth. “Tell me _why."_    
  
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” Jiyong pulls up his phone and holds it in Sehun’s face. “Recognize him?”  
  
“No,” Sehun lies. His stomach drops. His hands grow clammy.  
  
“This is Luhan,” Jiyong continues calmly. “He’s sent three messages to your KakaoTalk in the last hour -- ”  
  
Thank God, Jongin gave Sehun his number instead of KakaoTalk --  
  
“ -- and, luckily for us, all of his social media are connected.” Jiyong tuts concernedly. “Not very smart of him, is it?”  
  
If Sehun gets out of this, he’s never letting Luhan touch social media again. Sehun clenches his hands into fists and hopes his fear doesn’t show on his face.  
  
Jiyong’s scrolling through Luhan’s Instagram. “Caffe Bene, Paris Baguette. Wow. Looks tasty.” He holds up a selfie of Luhan and Sehun with boba. He raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t tag you in this.”  
  
“I don’t use social media,” Sehun grits out. “How did you get my KakaoTalk?”  
  
“You signed up for a coupon with Kakao at the shop down the street,” Jiyong says cheerily, “Your password wasn’t too secure -- ”  
  
“Because I never use it,” Sehun counters.  
  
“Except to talk to Luhan,” Jiyong shakes his head. “Now, it’d be a shame if his credit card were cancelled, wouldn’t it? Along with his bank accounts -- ”  
  
“You wouldn’t,” Sehun says weakly, “You can’t -- ”  
  
“Luhan loves buying stickers on KakaoTalk,” Jiyong wrinkles his nose. “You never really should leave your card number on these things, you know.”  
  
Sehun drains the rest of his champagne.  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
Kim Jongin -- also known as Mr. Kim and Kai, sole heir of his father’s successful (for now, at least) company, closeted classical music and ballet enthusiast (he only allows himself to listen to classical music on occasion, and rarely indulges in watching ballet, not when he can’t, _won’t,_  dance himself) -- is being hunted.  
  
He wakes up early that morning to the sight of Sehun mumbling in his dreams. After watching contentedly for a moment, Jongin heads out for a walk next to the canals, to watch the sunrise.  
  
That’s when he sees them.  
  
Prowling the lobby of Hotel Danieli are three men. Jongin only recognizes one, but the knowledge that it is renowned bounty hunter and hitman Kwon Jiyong is enough to send Jongin back upstairs, into the hotel suite, heart racing.  
  
He has a few options: carry on normally; wake Sehun and sneak out of the hotel; leave on his own. The first is clearly out of the picture -- Jiyong wouldn’t be vacationing in Italy. He’s clearly on a hunt, and he wouldn’t be hunting for anyone without memorizing an entire profile of his mission. Jiyong is notorious for his skill, used for both good and bad, depending on his employer. That is, Jiyong only follows money.  
  
Jiyong must be in Italy for one reason only: to get Jongin. For what reason, and for whom, Jongin has no clue -- he can only guess that it’s related to EXO.  
  
Jongin locks the suite door behind him, leaning against the door, his hands fumbling as he pulls out his cellphone.  
  
Even though it must be evening in Korea, Heechul picks up after two rings.  
  
“Who is this,” Heechul says, voice muffled; it sounds like he’s in a club or something, but Jongin doesn’t have time to ask.  
  
“It’s me,” Jongin says lowly but urgently. “This is my Italian number. I -- ”  
  
“Jongin?” There’s a shout and the sound of laughing. “I told you not -- ”  
  
“Kwon Jiyong,” Jongin says quickly, “He’s here -- he’s in my hotel -- I don’t know -- ”  
  
Six seconds of silence.  
  
“Jongin. Listen to me. Don’t -- just tell me, would someone in EXO be capable of hiring Kwon to hurt you?”  
  
Jongin closes his eyes. His thoughts are swirling in a cloudy mess; he can’t think, he can’t -- “I don’t know,” Jongin whispers, cupping his hand his mouth and the microphone, “I -- I don’t know -- ”  
  
“ _Think,_ ” Heechul commands. “Would someone in EXO want to hurt you?”  
  
“I -- ”  
  
“ _Jongin._ Yes or no, hurry,” Heechul snaps.  
  
Flustered, Jongin tries to piece together an answer. “I don’t _know_ , Heechul, maybe? I -- ”  
  
“If someone hired Kwon to hunt you down,” Heechul snarls, “Then you’re fucking lucky you aren’t tied up in the back of his trunk right now. Get off the call, and get off the grid as fast as you can. Don’t contact me again -- or _anyone_ for that matter. Get the fuck out of there, and trust no one. I’ll activate your other bank account. You know which one.”  
  
The phone call ends.  
  
To take Sehun along would be dragging him deeper into a mess he isn’t a part of. Jongin grabs his things, packing messily as he thinks. To take Sehun along would be to make him an _accessory_ , make him guilty -- and he’s innocent, completely innocent, he doesn’t --  
  
Jongin stuffs three credit cards into Sehun’s backpack and reasons to himself: Sehun has no connections with EXO, or Kai; Sehun knows next to nothing about EXO itself; Sehun won’t be _hurt_ \--  
  
This is the most important, because as ruthless as Kwon Jiyong is, the law restricts him and right now, the most dangerous place for Sehun to be is by Jongin’s side.  
  
Jongin texts Heechul: _Dandolo Royal Suite, Hotel Danieli. Get OS back to Korea ASAP._  
  
Heechul replies immediately: _Understood. Get rid of the phone. Tell S nothing -- the less he knows, the less he’s worth to them. Do not come back for him._  
  
  
  
Bringing a suitcase -- the contents of which include, but are not limited to: two iPads, three pairs of perfectly tailored, custom-made suits, leather shoes, and a rather expensive pair of cufflinks -- while one is on the run is not a good idea.  
  
Which is precisely why Jongin dumps his things as soon as he has the opportunity.  
  
After he leaves Hotel Danieli through the backdoor, he hands off his suitcase to a young bellhop smoking in the back alley. He tips the boy generously and tells him in passable Italian: “Check me out of the Dandolo suite, will you? I’m in a rush. Erase me from the system.” The boy eagerly does as asked, and Jongin bums his cigarette.  
  
From his backpack, Jongin procures his sunglasses and black cap, the both of which he shoves on as he strolls casually down the cobblestone street, backpack slung loosely on one shoulder. Inwardly, his stomach is in knots, but outwardly, he forces himself to remain calm. He blows out rings of smoke as tourists pass him by. The smoke tastes disgusting but Jongin ignores it.  
  
The first thing he does is find a shaded footbridge off of the main canal. He leans against the stone and purchases a seat on the next flight to the first country that pops up -- Sweden -- with no intention of following through. It isn’t much, but if Kwon’s tracking his card -- the one saved underneath Kai’s name -- then Jongin figures it’ll throw him off the trail for a little bit.  
  
The next thing he does is flag down a young girl, the daughter of a street vendor selling tourist trinkets and cheap wares. The little girl comes up to him, babbling about purchasing Venetian carnival masks. He presses money into her sweaty palm and asks her to deliver a toy gondola to the Hotel Danieli, for the man who checks out of the royal suite. He smiles charmingly at the mother and speaks to her for several minutes before moving on.  
  
Jongin knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t -- he can’t _forget_ about Sehun, and leave him like this --  
  
But the priority is to keep moving.  
  
Jongin goes.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh Sehun -- resident IT guy for most friends, friendly and snarky according to most acquaintances, but has a shitty sense of taste in alcohol and even worse sense of humor if you ask one best friend Luhan -- is annoyed.  
  
There’s a toy gondola on the vanity.  
  
The vanity itself is beautiful: the trifold mirror is prettily gilded, and the marble top of the desk is smoothly polished. In contrast, the little toy isn’t more than a cheap trinket, something bought on the streets of Venice as a gift, or to appease a particularly insistent street vendor.  
  
The toy doesn’t really matter. The vanity doesn’t really matter.  
  
What matters is this: there’s a man by the name of Jiyong in Sehun’s suite, accompanied by two silent cronies; Jongin has been gone since early morning; Sehun doesn’t know if Jiyong wants to hurt Jongin -- or… or _kill_ him; Sehun doesn’t know why Jongin’s on the run, but it certainly has to do with EXO, and that certainly means the entire situation was much worse than they thought.  
  
The toy’s been sitting on the vanity since room service left thirty minutes ago.  
  
“Now what,” Sehun snaps. Jiyong and his men have just finished sweeping the room -- most likely for bugs or any incriminating evidence -- for the fourth time.  
  
“Now you follow us,” Jiyong says coldly. “We’re going to set up base.”  
  
“And if I want to enjoy my vacation?”  
  
There’s a toy gondola on the vanity. Next to it is Sehun’s -- actually, Jongin’s -- book. _A History of Venice._ Paperback. It’s open to a page where a passage about the main canal is highlighted.  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Jiyong says.  
  
Sehun never highlights his books.  
  
“I'm serious,” Sehun says. “If you won’t let me go, then at least let me enjoy myself abroad. When will I have enough money to come back to Italy? I'm the working class; have some fucking pity.”  
  
Jiyong’s expression doesn’t twitch. “Fine,” he relents. “Take Seunghyun with you.” He jerks his head toward one of his henchmen.  
  
Sehun looks at Seunghyun. Seunghyun’s looking out the window through his sunglasses. It’s getting dark.  
  
Sehun looks away. “Fine.”  
  
  
  
“I want to go to the main canal,” Sehun says.  
  
“Sure,” Seunghyun says. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. As they exit Hotel Danieli, Seunghyun changes his posture: slouches a bit, slows his gait and widens his gaze. He goes from could-be assassin to innocent tourist in about two seconds. Sehun’s a little impressed.  
  
This is a cheap shot, at best.  
  
Jongin could’ve highlighted that bit of the book from before they left Korea; who knows if it actually has any meaning? But Sehun’s… He feels helpless and out of his depth in a country where he cannot understand the language; doesn’t even have his own credit card that works -- he’d been relying on Jongin’s international card for that.  
  
But here’s one thing that he knows for sure -- Jongin is innocent. He _must_ be.  
  
Sehun doesn’t know much about law or tax evasion or money moving hands in the way that it did in EXO, but he knows Jongin, even if it’s only been a few short months, and he firmly believes Jongin is not capable of -- Sehun grimaces -- what EXO’s affiliates might have gotten up to.  
  
There’s a lively bar sitting close to the water; Sehun doesn’t think much other than _I need a fucking drink_ before slipping inside.  
  
Surprisingly, Seunghyun follows.  
  
Inside, Sehun gives him a look as they make their way to the bar.  
  
“What?” Seunghyun says. “I can’t get a drink too?”  
  
Sehun watches carefully as Seunghyun orders them drinks in passable Italian and pays with an inconspicuous black card.  
  
“Thanks,” Sehun says flatly.  
  
“Using your own card would mean that whoever has your number can know where you are,” Seunghyun says. He sounds apologetic. At least he has emotions -- unlike Jiyong.  
  
“So,” Sehun says. He narrows his eyes. “Why are you a thug?”  
  
“So,” Seunghyun replies, “Why are you an escort?”  
  
“Who said I'm an escort?”  
  
“Who said I'm a thug?”  
  
Sehun rolls his eyes. The bartender comes and hands them their glasses.  
  
“Money,” Seunghyun takes a sip from his tumbler, “And I get to travel.”  
  
“Okay,” Sehun says slowly, “How much are you getting paid?”  
  
Someone jostles Seunghyun from behind and he steps a bit closer. Sehun takes a step back.  
  
“If I told you I'd have to kill you.”  
  
Sehun takes a sip from his glass. He squeezes tightly so Seunghyun can’t see his hands tremble. “Really.”  
  
“Jiyong told you,” Seunghyun shrugs. “We’re good. Really good.” He downs the rest of his drink. Smacks his lips. “See that girl there, at the other end of the bar?” Seunghyun asks, “She’s been making eyes at you all night. If you bought her a drink, I'm sure she’d go home with you.”  
  
“Who,” Sehun says, turning around.  
  
Seunghyun smacks him. “Don’t be so obvious. She’s coming over here.”  
  
“Ciao,” Seunghyun says when the woman comes over. She gives him an unimpressed look then smiles at Sehun.  
  
Seunghyun snorts. “Typical.”  
  
To Seunghyun, she fires something off in rapid Italian. Seunghyun says something else that Sehun doesn’t understand in reply.  
  
“What,” Sehun says.  
  
“How do you feel about threesomes,” Seunghyun says, “Because if you went home with her, you wouldn’t understand a word of what she says. I can be your personal translator.”  
  
“What did she say,” Sehun snaps.  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
The girl purrs something into Sehun’s ear and it sounds sexy, but he has no idea what she’s saying, and he’s not really in the mood -- like, at all. A hand’s running up his arm and four red painted nails crawl up his thigh.  
  
“Bye,” Seunghyun grins, turning back to the bar.  
  
“What happened to watching me?” Sehun scowls. “You’re going to let me go?”  
  
“Not far,” Seunghyun says smoothly. “Besides, who am I to deny a man of a good time? You’re the one that’s been putting out for so long, why don’t you take something for your own?”  
  
“No parlay Italiano,” Sehun says in token protest with an absolutely atrocious accent, but the girl’s dragging him across the bar to this secluded backroom -- and then he’s sitting in the dark on what feels like a couch. He’s here off of a hunch; but it smells like flowery perfume and alcohol and Sehun can’t understand Italian, he doesn’t know if he’s getting home safely, and --  
  
“ _Non parlo Italiano_?” she asks -- _you don’t speak Italian_?  
  
Before he can reply, she lets out a tinkling laugh. “ _Nessun problema,_ ” she says, and then there’s a pair of long Italian legs in Sehun’s lap and sticky lipgloss that tastes like peaches and cream sorbet in his mouth. A lesser man would be distracted as a pair of hands run down his arms, his chest -- but Sehun thinks her touch is too brief, too efficient to be sexual; it’s almost like she’s looking for a gun, a weapon --  
  
“Wait,” Sehun mumbles into her mouth, “Do you know -- Kai -- ”  
  
The magic word.  
  
A small plastic toy slips into his left hand. A toy gondola.  
  
The world tips and Sehun’s stomach rolls in a lurching wave.  
  
“Where did you get this,” Sehun breathes out, lips against her cheek, “Who -- ”  
  
He fumbles into his own pocket and pulls out its matching twin.  
  
She stands up abruptly and pulls out her phone.  
  
Sehun quickly follows suit, punches in Google translate and types in _who gave this to you?_  
  
They’re still in the dark; the phone screen lights up her pretty face and she smirks at him, shaking her head. _You said his name_ , reads her phone screen.  
  
“Kai,” Sehun rasps out, “He gave this to you -- you’ve seen him?”  
  
She cocks her head, as if she’s examining a particularly interesting bug.  
  
“You’ll see him,” he says, speaking aloud as he types into Google translate. His heart thrums in his chest. “You’ll see him again?” he holds up his phone. She reads. She nods slowly. “ _Si_ ,” she says. She holds up her phone. _Tracking mobile. No calls,_ her screen says. When Sehun finishes reading, the woman scrolls through her apps and pulls up voice memos.  
  
She offers the phone to him. Sehun only hesitates a second.  
  
“Jongin,” Sehun says. His voice sounds flat, dead, but Sehun forces himself to keep talking. “I’m… out of the hotel. I'm with Jiyong and Seunghyun and another -- thug. I -- they’re tracking Luhan and I think it’ll only be a matter of time before they can crack into my phone. Don’t -- don’t contact me and make sure -- ” Sehun licks his lips, “Make sure you don’t connect to public wifi spots. We’re staying across the canal from Hotel Danieli, number 85 -- ”  
  
Seunghyun bangs on the door. “Sorry kid,” Seunghyun yells to be heard over the music and through the door, “Boss is calling me. Gotta get you back.”  
  
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Sehun hisses into the phone and ends the recording.  
  
The Italian woman looks at him with something akin to pity.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, and gives her the phone back. He still tastes peaches and cream as he leaves.  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
Kim Jongin -- certified workaholic (that’s how he got to where he is today -- can you name another twenty-something year old with an equally impressive CV or resume? No? That’s what he thought, thank you very much) and recent convert to the clandestine yet cult-like society of “Let’s Try Every Facebook Recipe We Come Across,” thanks to Sehun and Luhan -- is relieved.  
  
An address.  
  
_Number 85,_ Jongin scribbles out.  
  
“You foreigners are strange,” Sofia says. Her red acrylic nails curl around a cigarette. Smoke curls over her coffee cup.  
  
“How was he,” Jongin asks, carefully folding up his paper.  
  
They’re sitting at open cafe at the edge of the city. It’s dangerous, being here. But Jongin can’t resist. They’re both wearing sunglasses; she wears a wide-brimmed sunhat and he wears a black baseball cap, drawn tight over his face. The smell of seawater wafts up, mixes with the fragrant scent of wisteria.  
  
Sofia laughs lightly. “He’s very much your type.”  
  
The purple wisteria flowers sprawl across the edge of an _al fresco_ restaurant, an open-air restaurant, across the canal. The cascading blossoms hang over the water, petals brushing the surface, kissing the waves delicately, as gently as a lover kisses their beloved. In the water, Jongin thinks he can see silver fish. Jongin loves the lush wisteria, loves the way their gnarled branches crawl over metal railings and balconies and up the sides of buildings. He loves their smell. It reminds him of Tuscany.  
  
“My type?”  
  
“Your boy is very pretty,” she says. She sips at her coffee. When she touches her napkin to her mouth, peach-colored lipstick stains the white. “Very much your type.”  
  
Smiling faintly, he looks away. “I know.”  
  
Sofia pushes her empty cup away.  
  
They take the next train out of Venice -- the Frecciarossa, a bullet train. The longer they stay idle, the closer Jiyong can get. Across the Venetian lagoon, toward the mainland, the train travels. A few hours later, they’re pulling into Milan’s central station, which has enormous vaulted ceilings made of stone and bustles with tourists and travellers.  
  
Two days they spend in Milan.  
  
They sip champagne and sleep in silk sheets, admire old architecture, mosaics, and churches. In front of the white marble cathedral, Sofia insists on playing tourist in her own country, snapping a few obligatory photos.  
  
They have cured meats and sharp cocktails for aperitivo, a sort of Italian pre-dinner, and plenty of delicious gelato. At one point, Sofia drags him down to west Milan, to an incredibly stylish tailor shop, where they peruse beautiful cashmere ties, personalized suits, and heavy, camel-colored, double-breasted coats. He buys her a designer handbag that catches her eye and treats her whenever they eat out. It’s the least he can do for her.  
  
Everything melts into marble, silk, colorful velvet, lavish dinners and golden details -- beautiful, but it’s hard for Jongin to remember when half of his mind is constantly worrying over what was left in Venice. Sofia notices, and helpfully avoids the subject of Venice or its current inhabitants as much as possible.  
  
From there, they take a train down to Rome, paid in cash, as usual. Jongin has one too many glasses of prosecco (Sofia eyes him but says nothing) to ease his nerves, looks without seeing as the lush landscape outside the window blurs into blue-green.  
  
Rome is Rome -- it’s big, it’s old and full of monuments, fountains, crowds, and gelato. Paint peels off of ancient buildings. Every wall and every street feels like living history.  
  
They rent out a small flat, away from the flocks of tourists. And they stay for a while, long enough for the stroll across piazzas -- with baskets full of fresh vegetables and flowers dangling on the crook of their elbows -- to become familiar. There’s a little workshop down the street where a curious man crafts violins by hand.  
  
Jongin breathes in the city: the bitumen, the faint scent of cigarette smoke; freshly baked dough and dark, dark espresso; the smell inhaled after crossing a hot Roman street, pushing open thick doors to enter a palazzo with cool marble floors.  
  
These scents are heady. They’re potent and entwined with Jongin’s fantasy of all of the lives of the people -- the poets, conquerors, emperors and gladiators, Renaissance painters, families of bakers and wine-makers -- who have lived in this city, smelled the same scent before.  
  
Jongin leaves the shutters to their flat open to hear couples speaking Italian in the streets, men whistling love ballads as they repair furniture, the signore living above them plucking out Scarlatti on the piano. Sofia laughs. She calls him a romantic.  
  
“Thank you,” he says to her one morning. They’re sitting in a local bistro, eating a late breakfast of peaches and yogurt, aside fresh warm bread smeared with pear and cinnamon marmalade. “For humoring me.”  
  
She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “For moving from city to city like madmen, running from those chasing your money?” She eats a spoonful of yogurt. “It’s like a high-speed vacation.” She smiles.  
  
“You know,” she says, “When I offered to show you Italy, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. But -- it’ll do. I’m enjoying myself, you know.” Sofia waves a perfectly manicured hand, encompassing the local bistro, the people strolling down cobblestone streets and parked Vespas in one fluid motion.  
  
“I’m serious,” he insists. “Thank you. For helping me.”  
  
“This man, chasing you -- you say you know him?”  
  
Jongin sips his cappuccino. “We met briefly. Through work.”  
  
“Work? He is a businessman?”  
  
“Employed by businessmen, more like.”  
  
“Who is he here for?”  
  
Jongin looks down at his cornetto, an Italian version of a croissant. “I’m not sure,” his eyebrows crease. “Either Kim Jongin or Kai. But I’m not sure which one.”  
  
Sofia frowns. Clearly this isn’t what she was asking. “Does it matter? I meant: is he looking for just you -- or you and someone else?”  
  
“No, I mean -- the people with EXO, they only know me by Kai. Kai is a persona only used in EXO. Otherwise, I usually go by Kim Jongin.”  
  
Sofia hums. “So, if Kwon is here for Kai, then he is here for your connection to EXO.”  
  
“Yes -- and no.” Jongin smiles apologetically. “If he is here for Kai, it’s most likely because whoever hired him wants to speak to me about the scandal -- the exposure, the whistleblower. If he is here for Kim Jongin, then it’s probably because my name -- Kim Jongin -- was… is on those lists.”  
  
“But they don’t know that Kim Jongin is also Kai,” Sofia surmises.  
  
“Right. The people,” Jongin pulls out his phone and presents a news article -- _Kim Jongin Involved in EXO Scandal? Is this the End of Kim Corporations?_ \-- “only know that son of Kim Namki is on EXO’s lists. Not Kai. No one knows.”  
  
“Not even your father?”  
  
“Well, he has -- an idea. He knows enough. And one of my employees, Heechul.”  
  
“And Sehun?” Sofia asks.  
  
“And -- Sehun?”  
  
“He knows as well?”  
  
“He does. He met me, in the very beginning, as Kai.”  
  
Sofia tilts her head, curious. “He knows of your work?”  
  
Slowly, Jongin replies, “To some extent.”  
  
“He seems clever,” Sofia says sharply. She smears pear and cinnamon marmalade onto a thick slice of fresh bread. “Slipped away from one of Kwon’s men quite quickly.”  
  
“He keeps me on my toes,” Jongin says honestly. “If it weren’t for the conflict of interest, I would’ve kept him as my personal assistant.”  
  
“Personal assistant,” Sofia throws her head back and laughs delicately. “I never thought you would say the words.”  
  
Jongin chuckles. “You’ll probably never hear me say them again. Before we left Korea, I had him transferred to another department. Didn’t want any unnecessary complications.”  
  
“And yet -- here you are.”  
  
“I don’t want him involved,” Jongin confesses. “I asked Heechul to get him out of the country, but there have been -- complications. Between everyone watching our company’s funds and Jiyong so close, it’s probably impossible to get him out right now.”  
  
“He certainly doesn’t seem like he needs the help,” Sofia says. “From what you told me and from what I saw, he seems more than capable.”  
  
“Yeah.” Jongin breathes out shallowly. “He’s probably hacking into their systems as we speak.”  
  
“See?” Sofia says. “Have some faith. In the meantime, let’s continue playing tourists, shall we?”  
  
They say all roads lead to Rome, but Jongin’s too distracted by what lies out of reach to appreciate anything more than the superficial on their tour of the city.  
  
They tour the Colosseum, push aside throngs of tourists in the Centro Storico to see the iconic Pantheon and Piazza di Spagna. Wandering street vendors try to sell Jongin roses, “for your lady, as a gift,” they insist, but Sofia snorts and yanks Jongin away. They have cold gelato in front of Trevi Fountain, watching tourists take pictures and throw coins over their shoulders, into the rippling water. Lunch that day is panini with creamy stracciatella cheese and anchovies and arugula.  
  
“What now,” Sofia asks a few hours later. They’re strolling leisurely, no destination in mind. “Where to next?”  
  
“Somewhere small,” Jongin replies. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Off the grid.”  
  
“In Italy?”  
  
“If you can find us a place.”  
  
“Wouldn’t it be better to leave the country?”  
  
“And leave Sehun? Absolutely not.”  
  
A throng of tourists approaches. Sofia squeezes in closer as they cross paths on the street. “You like him,” she says persistently. They walk step by step, synchronized. Her stylish boots click across the cobblestone. She loops a loose arm around his elbow.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“You love him?”  
  
Jongin doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Firmly, Jongin says, “Really.”  
  
Her smile is half knowing and half sad.  
  
  
  
They travel to Sofia’s summer home, in Sicily, southern Italy.  
  
Where it is exactly, Jongin doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask, Sofia doesn’t say. He just follows obediently as they go from train to train, moving south, and finally the final stretch from the mainland to the island covered by a slow ferry.  
  
They drive for what seems like hours, the rolling earth unspooling on for miles and miles. It’s the countryside: summer light, old trees, olive groves and lemon trees.  
  
“No tourists come here,” Sofia reassures him. “This is my summer home. A family friend is our cook. Comes four times a week, but other than that -- we won’t be bothered.”  
  
It’s a small place, a spacious summer house sheltered in the middle of nowhere.  
  
Thankfully, Sofia still remembers his tastes; shows him the cluttered library, which has shelves and shelves of books, and then the piano in an open, sunlit room with chiffon curtains. The windows are always open, and the breeze wanders in, lifting the sheer curtains.  
  
“Your room is upstairs,” Sofia calls out. “The room with the balcony.” She disappears into her own room and comes out a bit later in a yellow sundress. “Will you come with me to town?”  
  
“Shopping?” Jongin asks, confused. “I thought you said a cook -- ”  
  
“No,” Sofia smiles lightly, grabbing her things.  
  
“I’m fine,” Jongin says faintly. He forces a smile. “Go visit your other boy toys.”  
  
She chuckles. “I’ll have you know that none of them are as rich as you,” she teases. She tosses her hair over her shoulder in a silky ripple.  
  
Jongin grins. “I’m sure.”  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
Silence.  
  
It’s something that Sehun wasn’t expecting, although it makes sense. The lack of cars leaves a quiet space in the evening, shaped for contemplation, reflection.  
  
There is something about this city, Sehun thinks. Maybe it’s the way the quality of sunlight that hits the canal’s waterways; the narrow, winding streets, too-tall buildings and back alleys and piazzas, the walking; front doors right on the water. It’s a city of stories.  
  
He gets lost often enough, but that’s hardly a problem. Firstly, Jiyong never lets Sehun wander alone; Seunghyun’s dragged along to accompany Sehun and navigates the cobblestone streets easily. Secondly, it doesn’t really matter if he gets lost, because every time Sehun turns a corner, he feels like he enters a movie scene. It’s so picturesque, he has to remind himself to breathe.  
  
Their new headquarters -- namely, a lavish-looking hotel suite nearby -- thankfully contains a kitchenette, which Sehun quickly claims for his own. Today, Sehun’s littered the black countertop with crystals of sugar, cocoa powder, and egg shells.  
  
Seunghyun looks up from his laptop. “What are you doing.”  
  
“Baking.” Sehun folds stiff egg whites into a yolk and mascarpone mixture.  
  
Seunghyun looks confused. “Why?”  
  
“Where’s Jiyong?” Sehun asks, for the third time that day.  
  
“Why do you care?”  
  
“Are you not able to answer questions with anything other questions?”  
  
Seunghyun watches blankly as Sehun pours room-temperature espresso (purchased at the little coffee shop around the corner this morning) into spiced rum in a flat dish. “He’s out,” Seunghyun answers, belatedly.  
  
Sehun carefully dips ladyfinger biscuits into the espresso mixture. Very patiently, he asks, “Where is he?”  
  
“Kai bought tickets to Sweden. The flight’s supposed to leave in,” Seunghyun checks his watch, “Two hours. Jiyong and Daesung are at the airport now.”  
  
After each ladyfinger has been soaked, Sehun puts it in a square dish. After each layer, he pours over the mascarpone cream. “Sweden,” he echoes.  
  
“Could be a false lead,” Seunghyun says, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than anything else. “They’ll try and head him off in the airport.”  
  
Sehun freezes, but keeps his expression impassive. “And then what?”  
  
“And then what?” Seunghyun says, a little more sharply. “I shouldn’t be telling you anything.”  
  
Sehun puts down the ladyfinger he was holding before the espresso mixture can drip everywhere. “Right.”  
  
Not for the first time since they left Hotel Danieli, Sehun wishes he had his computer and phone. They’re mixed in with Jiyong’s things, somewhere, combined in their haste to leave the hotel. At least Sehun had encrypted everything on both the laptop and iPhone. That way, even if Jiyong figures out Sehun’s -- very secure, thanks -- passwords, he still won’t be able to see anything worthwhile.  
  
Nestled at the bottom of Sehun’s left jeans pocket is a compact USB drive, 32 gigs and small enough that Sehun could stick it into some moldable epoxy and glue into an empty case of chapstick. Seunghyun had found it when patting Sehun down and -- thank God -- only raised an eyebrow at the pumpkin pie flavored lip-balm before sticking it back in.  
  
Though it just looks like holiday edition chapstick, the flash drive hidden inside means that Sehun can copy and send files -- _if_ he can get his hands on either Seunghyun or Jiyong’s computer. And that’s _if_ there are important files he can find, and that’s _if_ he can find them.  
  
But even if he can find useful information, Sehun doesn’t know where and how to send it. He makes a small noise of frustration and shoves the last ladyfinger into its spot. If he could run, he would -- but there’s a thin band around Sehun’s right ankle, a black tracking device that Jiyong clamped on the second they left Hotel Danieli.  
  
“Are you making tiramisu?” Seunghyun says, looking up when Sehun wraps up the dish.  
  
“Why do you care,” Sehun says flatly.  
  
Seunghyun, for some reason, looks hurt. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.”  
  
Sehun rolls his eyes. “Firstly,” he starts, “You’re the one who kidnapped me -- ”  
  
“We didn’t _kidnap_ you - ”  
  
“ -- and dragged me here, _against my will_ , so I’m sorry if I’m not in the happiest mood -- ”  
  
“ -- told you we’d let you go, if you told us where Kai was -- ”  
  
“ -- and secondly, you’re with _Jiyong_ all the time, how can you not be used to bitchy expressions?”  
  
Seunghyun actually laughs.  
  
Sehun looks away. “Yes,” he says, a little less rudely, “I am making tiramisu.”  
  
“Wow.” Seunghyun looks far too serious for the subject of desserts.  
  
Sehun puts the dish into the refrigerator. All that’s left to do is wait. He drums his fingers on the counter. Seunghyun watches him unabashedly.  
  
Sehun gives in. “You can have some, when it’s done,” Sehun relents.  
  
Seunghyun pumps a fist in the air and makes a noise of delight. It’s like he’s five years old.  
  
Sehun asks, “How the fuck are you an assassin?”  
  
  
  
When Jiyong returns a few hours later, he slams the hotel door angrily, and storms into his room without so much as a hello.  
  
“Hello,” Seunghyun calls out, forking a piece of tiramisu.  
  
The coffee-flavored tiramisu is quite delicious; it’s airy and creamy and flavorful. Sehun’s fork glides over mascarpone, and cocoa powder settles on its metal tines.  
  
Daesung wanders into the kitchen and starts eyeing the dessert. Sehun abandons his plate and follows Jiyong further into the suite.  
  
The balcony door is flung open.  
  
“What happened?” Sehun asks, stepping out into the open air. Jiyong’s leaning against the metal railing, staring out into the canal water.  
  
“It was a false lead. He didn’t show up.” This means that Jongin is safe, and secure enough to be throwing Jiyong off his trail. Sehun exhales quietly in relief. He wants to leave now, doesn’t want to talk to Jiyong anymore, but knows that that would be suspicious.  
  
“Why didn’t you just… reach out to him? Pose as someone he knew, and lured him out?”  
  
“Whose side are you on anyway?” Jiyong looks back at the canals below them. “Of course we couldn’t _lure him out_ ,” Jiyong spits, “If we knew anything more than his name, we wouldn’t have left Korea to find him.”  
  
Something about that statement sounds off to Sehun, but before he can think much of it, Jiyong turns back around, and rounds on Sehun. “Why don’t you tell us where he is? After all, you were the one that got closest to him anyway.” Jiyong sneers.  
  
“Because,” Sehun says, more calmly than he feels, “You didn’t tell me why you want him so badly.”  
  
“Because _you_ won’t tell me why you care.”  
  
“Why does that matter?”  
  
“Motive is important. Incentive is important. It doesn’t matter what people do, it matters _why_ they do it.”  
  
Sehun puts a hand on a railing. “Then I guess we have nothing more to say to each other.”  
  
Jiyong laughs harshly. “Don’t be so sure. I have my ways, Oh Sehun.”  
  
  
  
Aside from the whole _I have no idea where Jongin is_ and _I’m living with three possible hitmen and/or international bounty hunters_ thing, life in Venice is pretty good.  
  
(Sehun thinks that he is worryingly good at compartmentalizing. Like, he should probably get it checked out when this whole thing has blown over.)  
  
Not having his phone or computer is kind of a relief to Sehun. He gets to shop freely and bothers Seunghyun to look up recipes online when he needs to know sugar to flour ratios. Since Jiyong doesn’t want anyone to be able to track them, Sehun can’t use his own credit card. Since Seunghyun just wants to keep Sehun complacent enough so that his job -- watching over Sehun, that is -- isn’t completely impossible, Seunghyun pays for whatever Sehun wants. It’s pretty nice.  
  
He cycles through a variety of Italian pastries -- like chocolate and pistachio biscotti and crostata baked tarts to name a few -- before moving onto cakes. Today, Jiyong and Daesung are out in the city of Venice, trying to see if Jongin’s still in the city by talking to (that’s what Seunghyun says, but, let’s be honest, they’re probably interrogating) tourists and locals alike.  
  
That means that Sehun has time to try a new cake he’d been eyeing.  
  
The open-air farmers’ market today had boasted fresh ricotta cheese, and Sehun didn’t even try to resist. He made Seunghyun carry home an armful of the stuff, while Sehun had hummed happily to himself, a basket of ripe tomatoes nestled on the crook of his arm.  
  
Anyway, with the tomatoes and ricotta, Sehun just made a pretty-looking heirloom and cheese tart: he’d lined a tin pan with puff pastry and stuffed the thing with a combination of ricotta, egg, some leftover cheese (from a room-service sampling the night before), seasoning, and fresh basil before lining the mixture with sliced tomatoes -- bright yellow, orange, and red; then baked for a while until the whole tart turned golden and flaky, the tomatoes wrinkled and vibrant. Now, the tart cools on a rack as Sehun moves onto a chocolate chip ricotta cake.  
  
Sehun’s combined the rest of the ricotta with sugar and added three eggs, one at a time, when he idly looks up and sees Seunghyun tapping away at his laptop.  
  
“What are you doing?” Sehun asks, initiating conversation for maybe the first time, ever.  
  
Seunghyun manages a smile. “He speaks.”  
  
Sehun adds baking soda, baking powder, vanilla, and butter and flour. He mixes. He waits for Seunghyun to answer -- this is something that he’s picked up in the last few days: if he waits in silence long enough, Seunghyun can’t stand the silence, and will reply.  
  
“I’m trying to use Kai’s credit card number to track down where he’s going.”  
  
“And where is he going?”  
  
Seunghyun makes a quiet noise of frustration. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”  
  
Sehun mixes. He thinks, then asks, “What’s his last name?”  
  
“Kai’s?”  
  
Seunghyun’s lack of an answer is an answer in and of itself.  
  
Finally, Sehun mixes in large chunks of chocolate before pouring the batter into a loaf pan. He pops the pan into the oven, and sits at the counter, analyzing what he knows.  
  
It’s clear that Jiyong, Seunghyun, and Daesung know very little about Jongin. If they’re as good as they claim to be, it’s strange that they know so little about their target.  
  
With nothing left to do but wait, Sehun grabs his book and reads. He can’t concentrate, mind flitting from thoughts of Jongin to Jiyong and his mysterious motives. Before long, golden hour peeks through the Venetian blinds, and the oven dings.  
  
“I get some too, right?” Seunghyun asks.  
  
The cake is moist, and not too sweet. It’s a little rustic, but the chocolate has melted into thin ribbons, and the top of the cake is cracked beautifully.  
  
They each have a thick slice of cake, and Seunghyun makes them some dark coffee. Orange-amber light floods the kitchenette, pouring over Sehun’s open book, staining the pages gold. Sehun’s thoroughly enjoying himself when Seunghyun goes, “When were you supposed to come back?”  
  
“What?” Sehun looks up.  
  
“Returning to Korea. When were you supposed to come back?”  
  
Sehun considers lying, then truthfully says, “We didn’t know. He never bought the tickets.”  
  
“He bought them for both of you?”  
  
Sehun takes another bite of cake. His lack of an answer is answer enough.  
  
  
  
The next day, there’s a quiet rapping at their door.  
  
Jiyong’s talking angrily on the phone in rapid-fire Italian, Daesung’s examining a map of Venice, and Seunghyun’s on his laptop again. Sehun looks up from his book, and, since no one else moves to get the door, Sehun opens it himself.  
  
He belatedly realizes that the one person in the room who doesn’t know passable Italian probably shouldn’t have opened the door, but the bellhop just holds up a delivery: two bottles of expensive wine and what looks like local white truffle.  
  
When Sehun returns, Seunghyun gives him an exasperated look. “Really?” he says. “You bought yourself red wine and truffles?”  
  
Sehun shrugs neutrally. “I like to treat myself.” He doesn’t add that he did not buy such luxurious items for himself.  
  
Daesung hardly gives him a glance as Sehun carries his newest ingredients into the kitchen, but Sehun waits until Jiyong -- most perceptive and observant of the three -- heads for the balcony for his afternoon cigarette. Then, Sehun carefully pulls the truffles out, examining each one carefully. To Seunghyun and Daesung, it just looks like Sehun’s inspecting the quality, but Sehun’s looking for something -- anything that would say this gift is from Jongin.  
  
When Sehun becomes desperate enough to peel back the label of the fine wine, he finds an address on the back of the paper, written in Italian.  
  
An overwhelming wave of relief crashes over him. Sehun closes his eyes and leans against the counter. He allows himself ten seconds of reprieve before schooling his expression back into nothingness.  
  
He cracks open the wine.  
  
  
  
That night, he writes a letter to Jongin. Pen and paper, since his devices have been confiscated. It’s been a while since he’s written something so long by hand, but Sehun soon becomes used to the nib of his pen rasping on paper.  
  
Ink flows as he writes.  
  
“Writing home?”  
  
Sehun nearly jumps in shock. His heart thumps wildly in his chest as Sehun jerks to conceal the paper, but Seunghyun just asks curiously, “Who’s J?”  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sehun says mildly. He’s proud that his impassive tone doesn’t betray an iota of fear when Seunghyun peeks over his shoulder.  
  
“Girlfriend?”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
Seunghyun looks surprised. “Really?”  
  
Sehun keeps writing.  
  
“What’s she like?” Seunghyun continues.  
  
“Why do you care?”  
  
“Do I look like I have something better to do?”  
  
“Yeah, tracking down Kai, like you’re supposed to do.” The irony of that statement doesn’t escape Sehun.  
  
“I’m taking a break.”  
  
“Put on the TV or something.”  
  
Seunghyun actually pouts. “Why would I do that when you’re so much more interesting?” He pulls up a chair. “Tell me about this girl. Mystery J.”  
  
Sehun can’t see any harm in that. He thinks of the best way to word what he wants to say before saying it.  
  
“She’s -- she comes off as intimidating. And confident. People respect her. She’s independent.” That’s the truth.  
  
Seunghyun must recognize that too, because he hums in interest. “Go on.”  
  
“But she’s -- she’s fragile. Like a child, almost. Sometimes I don’t know how to treat her. I don’t want to coddle her but I want to make sure he -- she’s safe as well,” Sehun almost slips.  
  
“What about you,” Sehun asks, genuinely curious. “Is there anyone in your life?”  
  
“No,” Seunghyun says. He sounds almost disappointed.  
  
“You have time.”  
  
“Do I?” Seunghyun looks thoughtful. “I always put my career first. I got into this business to help my family. And now I'm caught. No time for relationships. And no self-respecting lady would want someone with a history like mine.”  
  
“You don’t know that, Seunghyun,” Sehun says. He carefully puts his pen back on the table.  
  
Solemnly, Seunghyun replies, “I think you should call me Seungri.”  
  
For the first time since Jongin left, Sehun lets his lips quirk in the faintest display of amusement.  
  
  
  
Later, Sehun reads the letter. There’s nothing incriminating in it; even if Jiyong were to read it there’s nothing he could pick out -- and there’s no secret message that Sehun tried to conceal -- but he feels significantly better having written it.  
  
_J,_ _  
_ _  
_ _I'm not sure you’ll get this, but I thought I write a few lines to say hello. I'm not sure how to write letters -- I haven’t written one since elementary school, I think. I don’t know what to say._ _  
_ _  
_ _When I think of writing letters, I think of the old times, before email and texting. I think of the war and penpals. I know you must love writing and receiving letters; a romantic like you loves that sappy shit._ _  
_ _  
_ _Anyway, I thought I'd give it a try._ _  
_ _  
_ _Italy is like something out of those old movies or pictures. It’s as beautiful as everyone claims it to be, but there are many tourists. There are also parts of the city that no one puts in pictures or stories, but those are as interesting as the more famous places as well. I think you were right, about the history. There’s something different, walking the streets when you realize how much has happened for Venice to become what it is._ _  
_ _  
_ _Writing letters is strange to me. It’s not like a conversation, where your thoughts are coming out as you think. Writing letters is more filtered, less imperfect. I don’t know how I feel about it._ _  
_ _  
_ _The weather is sticky and terrible for my skin. Miss good Korean food. But I'm compiling my favorite recipes together at the moment. The hotel we’re staying at has enough room for me to try some cooking. I’ve just finished a new biscotti after trying cinnamon ones at this shop near the main canal._ _  
_ _  
_ _Hope you can try some soon,_ _  
_ _S_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
_ _  
_ “Zucchinis have flowers?”  
  
“You can eat the flowers?”  
  
Sehun ignores both Daesung and Seunghyun -- now Seungri, Sehun supposes, since they’ve progressed to that level of disjointed Stockholm syndrome. Sehun continues dipping said zucchini flowers, which are beautifully yellowed and green, into a doughy batter. The days are passing by quickly, and Sehun’s now progressed into savory dishes.  
  
Daesung and Seungri start talking about something else -- Jiyong’s on the balcony, chainsmoking again -- and the sounds of their amicable bickering fill the kitchen. Sehun starts frying the zucchini. He puts together an aioli sauce: roasted garlic mixed with mayonnaise (Sehun severely misses Kewpie mayonnaise, but has to make do) and olive oil.  
  
When the zucchini flowers, battered and deep-fried and sprinkled with sea salt, come out, Daesung and Seungri snag a few each. Sehun wonders what the hell his life has turned into, making desserts and snacks for formidable, world-class bounty hunters.  
  
Something from a bedroom beeps loudly.  
  
Seungri swears and Daesung jogs into the room.  
  
“Come on,” Jiyong snarls, coming out of the room a second later, “Let’s move.”  
  
“What?” Sehun asks, frowning.  
  
“What about him?” Seungri asks, nodding towards Sehun.  
  
Jiyong looks at the tracker on Sehun’s ankle pointedly. “If you leave this hotel room,” Jiyong says, “I will know. Don’t even think about it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sehun says, his blood racing in his ears. “Sure.”  
  
The other men grab inconspicuous black backpacks and all but run out of the hotel suite, eager to chase a hot new lead.  
  
It could be that Jongin slipped it, but Sehun’s almost completely positive that they got a reading off of a credit card -- one of the nice ones under Kai’s name -- that Sehun purposely dropped in a busy street yesterday during a grocery run.  
  
Sehun heads to the open computer, and is grateful for the fact that Jiyong isn’t paranoid enough to install cameras.  
  
The computer’s still open, but it quickly becomes clear that Jiyong was smart enough to clear his history and use incognito mode: there’re no saved passwords or cookies or anything on a browser that Sehun can work with. Sehun sifts through bookmarks, reading lists, but finds nothing.  
  
Knowing it’s only a matter of time before the other men realize that the credit card user is nothing more than someone with a clever eye who swiped the card off the street, Sehun has to work quickly.  
  
There’s not enough time for Sehun to create a backdoor, there’s not even enough time for Sehun to manually go through the files on the computer, so he opens up the command-line terminal. Typing in _ls -a -t_ lists all of the files with modified date and time, and shows most hidden files as well.  
  
Sehun yanks his pumpkin spice flavored flash drive out of his pocket and stuffs it hastily into the computer; he grabs the hundred most recent files and copies them over to his USB, praying that some of them will be relevant.  
  
A glance at his watch tells him that fifteen minutes have already passed, and that Sehun needs to hurry.  
  
He knows that the flash drive, as inconspicuous as it already is, may fall into wrong hands. To account for that, he needs to encrypt the files from Jiyong’s computer, so that even if someone opens up the USB, they can’t read those copied files.  
  
When prompted to enter a password, Sehun hesitates.  
  
To read encrypted files again, the same password is required to de-encrypt the files. Under normal circumstances, Sehun would come close to the 16 character mark for a password. But knowing that Jongin needs to open this as well, Sehun settles for a simpler password.  
  
While waiting for the files to be encrypted, Sehun types _netstat_ into the command-line, which pulls up all the network statistics -- every device’s connection through ports on the computer. Sehun quickly finds the one for his tracker and creates an internal countdown -- three days, which he surmises should be enough time to get the maximum possible amount of information out of Jiyong. After three days, the signalling between the computer and the tracker on Sehun’s ankle should be jammed; after three days, Sehun can leave.  
  
By the time the files have been copied and encrypted, Sehun hears the someone sliding a keycard into the door.  
  
Sehun manages to type _clear_ into the command-line and yanks out his USB just as the door swings open. Sehun heads to the kitchen. His chest feels tight. He checks his watch. 72 hours.  
  
“Goddammit,” Jiyong swears loudly.  
  
“He could be still in Venice,” Daesung says.  
  
“He wouldn’t be this clumsy,” Jiyong says. “Dropping a credit card in the middle of the road?”  
  
“It could’ve been dropped somewhere else,” Seungri points out. “And it could’ve been dropped a while ago.”  
  
“Could’ve been a pickpocket,” Daesung adds.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Jiyong growls. “Get back to work. I want to find this motherfucker.”  
  
  
  
Another day passes before Sehun leaves the house, accompanied by Seungri as usual.  
  
Jiyong had lashed out the night before, yelling angrily before storming out, and Sehun needs the fresh air.  
  
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Seungri says, defending his friend.  
  
“Yeah? Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m currently being held hostage, and I haven’t yelled yet.”  
  
Seungri harrumphs. “If you told us where Kai is, then it wouldn’t be like this.”  
  
“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know -- ”  
  
“Where he is, yeah, yeah.”  
  
They walk for a little longer.  
  
Then Sehun goes, “Seungri?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Will you help me send a letter?”  
  
“A letter?”  
  
Sehun stops by a canal. “Please?”  
  
Seungri’s face pinches in irritation. “You know I’m not supposed to let you communicate with anyone.”  
  
“Please,” Sehun insists, stepping a little closer and letting his eyebrows furrow. He pretends to hesitate. “It’s for J.”  
  
Seungri, like Jongin, must be a hopeless romantic, because he caves at the mention of Sehun’s supposed girlfriend and ushers Sehun to the closest post office in record time.  
  
They send the letter, and Sehun manages to discreetly slip in the USB stick, without a hitch.  
  
“I hope it works out for you two,” Seungri says, eyes a little misty, on the way back.  
  
“Me too,” Sehun says. It’s not lying -- not really, anyway, and Sehun only feels a little guilty.


	3. Chapter 3

Imagine this:  
  
A small cottage somewhere in the rural Italian countryside. A small home with dirt floors and glass windows; wildflowers in the front and an enormous garden in the back. In the summer you can walk underneath the lemon trees and the sunlight dapples your shoulder.  
  
You smell ripe tomatoes and yellow summer and wild herbs. In the yard, bees hum around you and they sound like the earth, they make it sound like the entire garden is alive.  
  
You spend entire afternoons just walking through the plants, looking at the flowers, touching the perfect curve of a bluebell or pressing the petal of a rose between forefinger and thumb. You pick daisies and press them in between the pages of a dictionary. Plump olives and unruly dandelions and the constant sound of bees -- their smell, their feet brushed with the spices of a thousand different flowers -- these are the things you become used to.  
  
Picking blood oranges and discovering mosquito-breeding ground by the rain barrel next to the shed, following the buzz of goldfuzzed bees; and walking, stumbling, half-drunk on the scent of pollen, the mellow dandelion wine swirling in the air. Sun-broken fields, the land swallowed in summer. Bare feet on raw earth. The taste of sunlight.  
  
Imagine that.  
  
These are the things that make up the Italy that Jongin loves.  
  
In the morning -- freshly brewed coffee, bitter enough that it opens up the palate for the plate of ricotta cheese and honey and fig toast. After breakfast is a trip to the purling stream that meanders around the edge of the property. Icy cold water swirls around swimming trunks, tugs seductively at skin. Lunch back in the garden is zucchini salad or salamis and sliced hams on olive bread; sometimes it’s focaccia or grilled chicken, but it’s always delicious.  
  
After -- an afternoon for transcribing music. Jongin works on a stack of Chopin’s Nocturnes, coaxing sweet refrains out from the ancient piano. Sometimes he’ll curl up on a sunchair in the garden and read. Other times he’ll walk down the gravel driveway, underneath the olive trees.  
  
And in the evening: a glass of wine accompanied by an old song on the radio, Italian ballads and heartache warbling out from a local station. Jongin often sleeps early, serenaded by the cicadas and the stifling swell of humidity. It’s almost perfect.  
  
Nearly a week passes.  
  
“I have something for you,” Sofia says, on the evening of their sixth night in Sicily. “It came in from Venice this morning.”  
  
A thin brown package with their address scribbled messily on the front waits on the kitchen counter.  
  
“For me?” Jongin asks absently, taking the package and turning it over in his hands. It’s heavier than he expected.  
  
“I’m assuming it’s for you,” Sofia says. She rummages through the cupboard, and grabs a bottle-opener. She pops open a bottle of prosecco and pours herself a liberal glass.  
  
Jongin turns back to the letter. There’s nothing on it, besides a stamp and the address, but he feels something hopeful fluttering in his chest.  
  
When he finally rips it open, a case of chapstick -- heavier than chapstick should be -- falls out.  
  
“How thoughtful,” Sofia says dryly.  
  
“No,” Jongin scoops it up, “Look.”  
  
When he pulls off the cap of the chapstick, instead of a stick of pumpkin-scented lipbalm, there’s the metal tip of a flash drive.  
  
In the torpor of this Italian countryside, it feels a bit sacrilegious to pull out his laptop, but Jongin pushes through. The USB, which shows up under the name _i told u cybrsecrity is imprtnt_ , (Jongin has to snort in amusement at that) requires a password.  
  
Jongin licks his lips. Sofia offers him a glass of prosecco, which he downs.  
  
Jongin tries _Bangkok_.  
  
It doesn’t work. _2 tries remaining_ , he reads.  
  
Jongin closes his eyes and types in _Yokohama_.  
  
It works.  
  
Jongin breathes a sigh of relief, then goes through the drive.  
  
It contains a few touristy photos, a locked folder, and a text file entitled _readme.txt_.  
  
Jongin opens the text file.  
  
_J, found thse files on Seungri’s hard drve. Haven’t looked yet. Careful -- viruses maybe. See what you can find. Passwd: affogato_ _  
__  
_ Who the hell is Seungri? Jongin frowns. It must be Seunghyun, though Jongin can’t ever remember the man going by a nickname.  
  
Jongin opens up the folder, types in the password, and scans its contents.  
  
There’re at least a hundred files, all haphazardly put in the same folder with no sense of organization whatsoever. Most of them are PDFs of what look like receipts, names followed by a date and identification number of some sort. Others are called _Assignment Details_ , and _Proof of Purchase - addt’l details_.  
  
Jongin looks at the latest proof of purchase. The file was last modified 1 week, 4 days, and 38 minutes ago. Based on the stamp date, the file was saved a few days ago, so really, the information’s probably about 2 weeks old now.  
  
Jongin checks his phone. They left South Korea almost 3 weeks ago.  
  
He opens up the PDF and reads.  
  
_PROOF OF PURCHASE --_ _  
__  
__NAME: Kwon Jiyong_ _  
__  
_ There’s also a small photo of Jiyong staring impassively into the camera. _  
__  
__PRICE: [redacted]_ _  
__  
__CONTRACT DETAILS: [redacted]_ _  
__  
__MARK: T-G01171994, alias KAI_ _  
__  
_ If it were that easy for Sehun to get these files, then of course Jiyong would’ve censored them. But at least Jongin knows for sure that someone hired him. The question is, who? The only relief is that it seems Jiyong isn’t aware of Kim Jongin’s existence -- or at least, hasn’t linked it to the persona of Kai yet.  
  
_POINT OF CONTACT and CUSTOMER INFORMATION: See file attached._ _  
__  
_ Jongin moves to click the next file. He growls in annoyance, irritated when he sees the long row of red _[redacted]_.  
  
_DATE OF TRANSFER: [redacted]_ _  
__  
__TRANSFER AMOUNT: [redacted]_ _  
__  
_ Credit card number, billing information, redacted, redacted. “Just show me who hired Kwon,” Jongin mutters to his screen. _  
__  
_ Jongin scrolls to the bottom of the page. A grainy black and white photo comes up. _Photo identification_ , he reads. _  
__  
_ Though the face is blurry, its features are easy enough to distinguish. Jongin stares at the photo of his father and blanches.  
  
  
  
\--- _  
__  
__  
__  
__Traitor to his Father and Company? Latest Details on EXO Scandal!_ _  
__  
__Exclusive Scoop on Who Kim Jongin Really Is -- read more!_ _  
__  
__Kim Heechul Explains Why Heir to Kim Corp. is Nowhere to Be Found!_  
  
Seungri clears his throat and keeps scrolling. “The reporters are having a field day with this,” he comments.  
  
Sehun looks away from where he’d been peeking over Seungri’s shoulder. “Why are you reading this?” From what Sehun has observed, it’s clear that Seungri knows nothing of Kim Jongin’s connection to Kai.  
  
Sehun checks his watch. 20 hours.  
  
“I like staying on top of the news.” Seungri keeps scrolling. “Kim Jongin’s famous, you know. He’s set to inherit his father’s company pretty soon, but with this scandal -- who knows.”  
  
He figures the best thing to do is play dumb. “Who is Heechul?”  
  
“Kim Heechul,” Seungri says. “He’s an advisor to the Kims’ company. Worked directly under Kim Namki for a while, but now he works mostly with his son.” Seungri looks up warily. “Did you ever see him at EXO?”  
  
“No,” Sehun answers truthfully. “But I thought I’d heard his name before.”  
  
Seungri nods thoughtfully. “Well, he’s pretty well-known in the industry. Not as famous as the CEO and his son, but close. Anyway, I met him once.”  
  
“Through Jiyong?”  
  
Seungri hesitates, as though he doesn’t want to tell Sehun too much. “Yes, it was.”  
  
“What was he like?”  
  
Seungri closes out of the tab. “Evasive. He always can speak without really saying anything, like he did in the interview.” Seungri gestures towards the laptop. “Just spewed a bunch of stuff about how no one can prove anyone’s involved with anything, that Jongin’s waiting for concrete evidence before making any statements.”  
  
“He was like that when you met him too?”  
  
Seungri shifts his gaze. “I don’t know,” Seungri says carefully. “Your impression of Heechul is usually whatever he wants it to be.” After closing his laptop, Seungri continues, “I just think the timing is a strange coincidence, that’s all.”  
  
Sehun frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean, Jongin was just about to inherit the company from his father. Then someone conveniently leaks all of EXO’s files?” Seungri shrugs. He stands up and moves to the refrigerator. Sehun watches from the small but comfortable couch. The TV’s on, but muted in front of them. Daesung and Jiyong are talking quietly on the balcony, too soft to be heard.  
  
Sehun’s blood turns cold. “You think someone sabotaged Jongin?”  
  
“Hey, I don’t know anything. You were the one who worked for EXO,” Seungri points out. He pulls out some sparkling water and pours himself a generous cup.  
  
“Is that why you’re here for Kai?”  
  
Seungri freezes. Carefully, he asks, “What does Kai have anything to do with this?”  
  
“I -- because you brought up the files -- ”  
  
Seungri sips at his San Pellegrino, purposefully casual.  
  
Hurriedly, Sehun adds, “That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Because of the EXO scandal?”  
  
Seungri puts the bottle of sparkling water back into the refrigerator. The door closes. “That’s classified,” he says tonelessly.  
  
“Right,” Sehun says. It feels as though every time he takes a step forward, he takes two back: it was dangerous for Sehun to assume that Jiyong is here for Kai because of EXO. Just because the timing of the scandal happened to align, doesn’t mean that Jiyong’s here because of it. Though Kai is a persona only known within EXO, Jiyong could be chasing down Kai for a previous deal. What had Jisoo said?  
  
Jongin only began work with EXO after he became department head, maybe five or so years ago. Five years is a long time -- and Sehun has no idea what Jongin had done then. Now, Seungri’s insinuations about Heechul bring cold dread to Sehun; could Seungri be onto something? Or was he trying to get information out of Sehun?  
  
Seungri opens the refrigerator door again. The sound interrupts Sehun’s thoughts. “Do we have any more of that cake?” he asks.  
  
  
  
Sehun subtly turns his wrist to check his watch. 11 hours.  
  
“Does it bother her that you’re gone?” Seungri asks. “Abroad? Doing...” his face contorts slightly, “Work?”  
  
They’re in the kitchen, enjoying grilled peaches and gelato. Sehun sprinkles on crumbled walnuts. Jiyong gives them a disapproving glance, to which Sehun shrugs, hoping that that motion encompasses, _when in Rome_ …  
  
(Sehun feels a slight twinge of guilt, seeing as he’s been lazing around and enjoying luscious desserts and pastries while Jiyong, Seungri, Daesung are hard at work; but then he quickly stamps out that guilt when he realizes that Stockholm syndrome is kicking in.)  
  
To Seungri, Sehun goes, “Who?”  
  
“Your girlfriend.” He portions off a bit of peach with his spoon.  
  
“My -- ” Sehun frowns at his scoop of plain gelato. Jongin, his brain helpfully supplies. “Oh.”  
  
“So what,” Seungri continues conversationally. “It isn’t official?”  
  
Sehun shrugs. He doesn’t know how to explain what he and Jongin are; he doesn’t know if he and Jongin know what they are. “I guess.”  
  
“Well, how can you not be?” Seungri tilts his head quizzically.  
  
“It’s not -- it’s just not like that. We are what we are.”  
  
“It doesn’t bother her?”  
  
Sehun shifts in his seat. “I mean -- no. We don’t really… talk about stuff like that.”  
  
Eagerly, Seungri goes, “Are you in love?”  
  
“I don’t use the L word,” Sehun deadpans.  
  
That actually gets Seungri to laugh. “I get it,” he says with a chortle, “You’re one of those people.”  
  
“ _Those_ people?”  
  
“You don’t talk about stuff like this,” Seungri parrots.  
  
“How can you know you love someone?” Sehun counters. “Why does anyone like anyone?” Sehun shrugs. “I don’t think anyone can really explain. I think that’s the way it is. You don’t need to explain everything all the time.”  
  
“But -- ”  
  
“It’s like this,” Sehun tries to explain, his ice cream forgotten. “All of this -- all of these books, and movies, and all of this poetry -- they’re trying to explain love and relationships and romance. They’re trying to define it, or label it.” He shakes his head. “You can’t, really. Not to another person. Whatever you have, whatever it is -- it just is.” Sehun scoops up a bit of ice cream and puts it in his mouth. He feels a little self-conscious. Lamely, he finishes with, “I don’t know. That’s what I think.”  
  
Seungri peers at him. Belatedly, Sehun realizes that this is the most he’s ever spoken in front of Seungri. “I get it,” Seungri says finally.  
  
Sehun has another scoop of ice cream. Sharply, he retorts, “Do you really?”  
  
“Yeah,” Seungri says steadily, even though Sehun knows that his own tone is grating. “I do. It’s like -- if you could explain it, then it wouldn’t be as special. All of these people, everyone writes about love and romance and shit -- and they _keep_ writing about it -- because you can’t describe it. Not really. It’s different for everyone, and if there was some explanation that could make sense, that could capture it in the right way, then no one would keep talking about it.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sehun says. He suddenly feels exhausted. “Yeah.”  
  
From the living room, Jiyong calls Seungri over, and that particular conversation ends there.  
  
After finishing his peaches and gelato, Sehun wanders into the living room as well. There’s an empty spot on the couch that Sehun takes, which leaves more than half of the length of the couch between him and Jiyong, who sits on the other end. On the short coffee table in front of them is Jiyong’s laptop, and empty plates that used to have carpaccio, as well as a half-eaten cheese platter from room service.  
  
“...circle back to Venice. We met him in Seoul…” Jiyong’s saying something to Daesung, but Sehun’s too distracted by the files on Jiyong’s laptop.  
  
Absently, Sehun asks, “How come I’ve never heard of you guys before, if you’re so good at what you do?” He shifts on the couch until he’s comfortable.  
  
Jiyong throws Sehun an irritated look. Upon closer inspection, Jiyong’s just reading the news on his computer.  
  
Sehun’s entire stomach lurches.  
  
“We’re paid to be discreet,” Seungri adds sympathetically, but Sehun can’t even look at him; his thoughts are spinning, pieces falling into place --  
  
And hadn’t Seungri just been reading an article about Kim Jongin that afternoon?  
  
Sehun turns to Seungri. “You don’t know what he looks like?”  
  
Seungri looks bemused. He glances over at Jiyong, who watches coldly, then back to Sehun. “What?”  
  
“Kai,” Sehun repeats. It feels like there’s this thin film over everything in the hotel suite: the TV’s buzzing, droning on mindlessly, garish colors flashing; the fan beats too heavy, _whump whump whump_ , relentlessly, casting this shapeless shadow over them rhythmically, like strobe-lights. “You don’t know what he looks like -- that… that’s why I'm here. That’s why you're keeping me around.”  
  
If none of them knows what Jongin -- or Kai, for that matter -- looks like, then they _must_ have been hired by a third party.  
  
Jiyong leans forward with a dangerous glint in his eye. Icily, he says, “Maybe we’re keeping you around for your pretty ass, princess, ever think about that?”  
  
Sehun grabs the butter knife from off the table and lunges for Jiyong.  
  
Faster than Sehun can process, Seungri darts forward and restrains him.  
  
_Safeword, safeword, safeword_.  
  
Jiyong looks down to see Sehun pointing the tip of the metal knife, still covered in Camembert cheese, at his chest.  
  
“Sehun, no,” Seungri pants, holding Sehun back.  
  
Sehun’s voice sounds gray and flat when he replies easily, “Make one more comment about my pretty ass and I’ll shove this up yours.”  
  
_Whump whump whump --_ the fan keeps fucking spinning, faster and faster and Sehun feels --  
  
Jiyong smiles, razor-thin. “Yeah?” he goads, “Then what would you do if I tell you that I'd like to -- ”  
  
Sehun jerks in Seungri’s grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daesung adjust his grip on the gun holstered on his belt.  
  
“Jiyong,” Seungri says warningly, “Fuck off.”  
  
“Whose operation is this?” Jiyong demands.  
  
“Who is losing control?” Seungri counters.  
  
Sehun yanks himself out of Seungri’s grasp and tosses the knife back onto the table with a clatter. The noise is loud and jarring. Sehun feels -- disoriented --  
  
“You fucking watch yourself,” Jiyong spits at Sehun. Jiyong’s face looks different when it’s twisted with anger. Normally, his control is made of steel, but today, several glasses of alcohol in with no leads on Kai, it seems as though his nerves are wearing thin.  
  
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t threatening me,” Sehun says.  
  
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t so uncooperative. If you weren’t -- ”  
  
“You think I’m _asking_ for this?”  
  
Jiyong curls his lip into a vicious snarl. “I think you’re asking for something.”  
  
Sehun knows he has a snarky mouth; he knows that he has a terrible habit of talking back, which he _really_ should control, but he can’t stop himself. “ _I_ think -- ”  
  
Before Sehun can finish, Jiyong has a gun out, cocked and pointed to Sehun’s forehead.  
  
“Jiyong,” Seungri hisses, stepping forward, hands up in a placating gesture. Daesung moves forward, slowly.  
  
“Your mouth may be pretty for sucking cock, but you talk too fucking much,” Jiyong growls.  
  
“So what,” Sehun spits. Everything feels dreamlike, disjointed, as if there’s this layer separating Sehun from reality. “You’ll shoot me? Kill me?”  
  
Jiyong’s gun twitches. “You want me to?”  
  
“Jiyong,” Seungri pleads, stepping forward slowly, “Please don’t -- ”  
  
“Sehun,” Daesung says lowly, “Stop talking.”  
  
This is _reckless_ , this is _stupid_ crazy, but Sehun has nothing to fucking lose, Jiyong won’t kill him, and Sehun needs to know -- “Would it make you feel better? Blow my brains out? And for what -- it wouldn’t even get you closer to Kai. In fact, it would get you farther -- ”  
  
“Be careful, Oh Sehun,” Jiyong snaps.  
  
Seungri goes, “Jiyong, please let go. Jesus Christ, the kid doesn’t mean anything, Kwon, let him _go_.”  
  
In what seems like a monumentally difficult decision, Jiyong lets his gun slide.  
  
Seungri’s close enough to take the gun from Jiyong’s loose grip. Jiyong lets the weapon slip from his fingers and turns on his heels, stalks out to the balcony toward fresh air.  
  
Daesung mutters, “Are you fucking suicidal?” but holsters his weapon, and slouches back down onto his seat.  
  
Seungri comes up and grabs Sehun by the shoulders. Sehun yanks himself out of Seungri’s grip and flops back onto the couch. His hands are trembling. His throat feels like sandpaper.  
  
“Sorry,” Seungri murmurs. “You know he wouldn’t -- ”  
  
“Hurt me permanently?” Sehun grimaces, tightening his hands so that he can’t see his fingers shaking. “Yeah, figured. Thanks anyway.”  
  
Seungri swears under his breath. “Jesus.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
Sehun feels unnerved. “Should we get room service?” Sehun says, voice too tight and too high.  
  
Seungri hands over the hotel phone without question.  
  
  
  
They order cucumber, fresh and crisp, topped with caviar.  Sehun gets prosciutto wrapped around slices of cheese and sweet melons, because he feels as though he’s deserved to spend some of Jiyong’s money after having a gun to his head. Sehun takes a sip of his wine and says as much.  
  
Seungri barks out a laugh. He’s changed into one of the hotel’s comfortable white bathrobes and kicked two feet up onto the coffee table. “You think we’re paying for this?”  
  
“So who?” Sehun folds his legs underneath himself, sitting cross-legged on the couch. “Your employer?”  
  
Seungri grunts in acknowledgement. “Who else?” He leans back in his chair. “God, if I were as rich as Kai, I wouldn’t even try coming back to Korea. I’d just stay abroad.”  
  
Daesung’s disappeared into one of the bedrooms, and Jiyong’s still out on the balcony, smoking. This leaves Sehun and Seungri alone to enjoy the room service.  
  
Sehun swirls his wine. “How do you know he’s rich?” he asks, frowning.  
  
“He’s got to be. Why else would he be running?”  
  
Sehun’s frown deepens. “Because you’re trying to kill him?”  
  
Seungri drains his glass. At this point, Sehun doesn’t even know what Seungri’s drinking; the three hunters seem depleted tonight, and at a loss for willpower.  
  
“We aren’t trying to kill him.” Seungri’s lips twitch.  
  
“What…” Sehun feels dumb, “What are you trying to do?”  
  
“Take him in obviously.” Seungri peers at Sehun oddly. “Anyway,” Seungri says, “Like I was saying. If I had money like Kai, I wouldn’t bother coming back to Korea. I'd just enjoy all my stolen money and call it a day.”  
  
Sehun sits up straight. “Stolen money?”  
  
“Laundered money, whatever.”  
  
Things start to make sense. “How -- how did he get it?”  
  
Seungri looks up. “Are you sure you worked at EXO?”  
  
“I mean -- I never knew who was doing the dealings -- ”  
  
“Kai was,” Seungri says. Now Seungri looks confused. “That’s why we’re chasing after him.”  
  
“You,” Sehun exhales sharply, “You think he was the whistleblower. The one who released the names.”  
  
“Didn’t he?” Seungri looks thoughtful, then grabs another chunk of prosciutto-wrapped melon.  
  
Sehun stands up and heads to the balcony, his limbs moving of their own accord. It feels like he’s in a trance.  
  
Now -- Sehun has to be careful, but -- “You think that Kai released the names of everyone in EXO?”  
  
Jiyong exhales. Smoke billows out into the night air. “I knew Seungri would be a liability. He talks too much.”  
  
“You’re chasing an innocent man,” Sehun says, coming to a stop just past the sliding door.  
  
“You said you were just a worker at EXO. How can you know who is innocent and who isn't?”  
  
“He’s innocent,” Sehun says firmly. “He was not the one who released those names -- his name is on that list, why would he?”  
  
Jiyong turns around. “You know his real name?”  
  
“I -- what?”  
  
“No code names are on that list. If Kai’s name is on that list, it’s his real name that’s on it, not Kai. You know his real name.”  
  
“No,” Sehun backtracks quickly -- who knows what Jiyong may do with the knowledge that Jongin and Kai are one and the same? “No, I just -- I haven’t seen the list… I just assumed -- ”  
  
“You are a liar,” Jiyong snarls, stepping closer, “Tell me his real name.”  
  
Sehun counters quickly, “Tell me why your boss is so interested in Kai.”  
  
“Why are _you_ so interested in Kai?” Jiyong snaps, stalking closer.  
  
Sehun feels his veins pulsing frantically under his skin. He needs to get _out_ \-- Jiyong wouldn’t have hurt him an hour ago, but now, with information --    
  
“I want to leave,” Sehun demands, his voice shaking. “Let me go, you’ve gotten enough out of me and no closer to your target -- ”  
  
“You can’t,” Jiyong says, “You have no money, no contacts, and you can’t speak a word of Italian. You’re free to leave -- I’ll track you down. I’ll force you to tell me what you know -- ”  
  
Sehun twists his lip without humor. “I’ll take your word for it.”  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Heechul?”  
  
“Who -- is that -- ”  
  
“It’s me.”  
  
“Where are you? Please tell me you’re out of Italy.”  
  
“I’m not going to tell you,” Jongin says firmly, in case the phone line is bugged. “I take it you couldn’t get him out of the country?”  
  
“I told you _not_ to keep tabs on him, didn’t I?”  
  
“Did you? I can’t remember.”  
  
Jongin can practically hear Heechul scowling into the phone.  
  
“Look,” Jongin says quickly, knowing that if the line is being tapped into, he only has a short amount of time before his location can be tracked. The faster he gets off the phone, the better. “I need you to do me a favor. Do you remember the files that my father keeps on the stick?”  
  
There’s silence.  
  
Kim Namki goes through many, many transactions and dealings in one month alone; the majority of them are saved on the company’s system, like normal, but the more confidential trading is saved offline, on a hard drive kept locked up at all times.  
  
“You’re fucking with me,” Heechul hisses, “You’ve got to be -- ”  
  
“I need them. And you can’t let him know that you’re giving them to me. Better yet, don’t tell him that I have them at all -- ”  
  
“I’m sorry, but _do you hear yourself right now_? Do you know what I’m doing, dealing with the press?”  
  
“Heechul,” Jongin says, furtively, “I need those files. This is -- ” his watch beeps. Thirty seconds are nearly up, and if he stays on for much longer, the call will become insecure.  
  
Heechul seems to recognize this too, because he growls, “This better be worth it,” before hanging up.  
  
The phone call ends. Jongin’s left with only static quavering from the rusted landline that Jongin had to fix not one, but two times, before it ended up working.  
  
Jongin sighs.  
  
He’s in his room, sitting at the rickety desk. The wooden surface is chipped and ringed with circlets from mugs and glasses alike.  
  
Another few hours he spends combing through the files from Seungri’s computer. He feels like his thoughts are blurred, tampered down. He thinks he should feel betrayal (a target on his back, a bounty on his head, because of his _father_ ) -- all he feels is a vague sense of disappointment.  
  
He’s becoming numb.  
  
He can’t be sure, though, he needs Heechul to send him those files, on the hard-drive --  
  
He wishes that Sehun could have gotten out. For a brief moment, Jongin allows himself to imagine Sehun’s return: a return to Korea, normality; a return to when the greatest dangers were staying up late to finish faulty code or burning a pinky on the stove.  
  
He was _betrayed_ \--  
  
Does Sehun regret coming to Italy? Does Jongin regret becoming involved in EXO?  
  
Yes, but to which?  
  
_Numb_ \--  
  
“Jongin!” Sofia calls out from downstairs. “Dinner!”  
  
Sofia’s family friend turns out to be an old man with thinning hair and wrinkled hands, like leather. He perpetually wears a worn lump of cloth resembling a beret on his head, and doesn’t look like a cook in the slightest. His voice is raspy and he speaks in the Sicilian dialect; Jongin only catches every third word or so.  
  
But he perseveres, watches and asks questions now and then as the man prepares _caponata_ , a sweet and sour kind of vegetable salad.  
  
Eggplants, cut into bite-sized pieces, are sauteed and mixed with a seasoned ensemble of raisins, olives, capers, tomatoes, celery, and onion. The cook tosses in an ample amount of vinegar and sugar, never bothering to use measurements -- unfortunate for Jongin, who happens to be trying to scribble down the recipe in a notebook for Sehun later.  
  
The man tosses in chopped almonds to garnish, gesturing for Jongin to bring over plates when Jongin doesn’t understand his blunt instructions in Sicilian. Sofia says goodbye to her friend on her cellphone.  
  
The final dish is delicious; the cook takes his leave while Jongin and Sofia spread the caponata onto ciabatta bread and eat in the kitchen, talking about one thing or another. It isn’t until much later, after Sofia disappears to take a shower, and Jongin’s spent a while on the piano, that Jongin returns to his room.  
  
The next few hours he spends finishing up the files only confirms what the first PDF had hinted at: through a third party, through another name in the company and an offshore account, Kim Namki had initiated a transaction through a partner of a partner.  
  
The paper trail is longwinded and muddled to the untrained eye, but Jongin’s been dealing with this kind of paperwork his entire adult life. Despite all of the layers of obfuscation, the main deal is clear: Jongin’s father had hired Kwon Jiyong to find him, hunt him down and --  
  
How could he? Kim Namki _knew_ that his son was involved in EXO. Perhaps not the grittier details, but he had turned a blind eye as soon as profits were rolling into their quarterly earnings and never made any mention of reducing involvement.  
  
Is it a ploy? Was it forgery? Jongin knows there are more than enough people at the company waiting to see Jongin fuck up. The question is who?  
  
A rap on the door interrupts him.  
  
“Come in,” Jongin says distractedly, quickly putting away his laptop and papers.  
  
Sofia saunters in and places a cup on Jongin’s desk. “Granita. Want some?” She offers him a spoon without waiting for an answer.  
  
“Granita?”  
  
“Like shaved ice. A -- how do you say it? Slushie?”  
  
Jongin takes the spoon and tries it. The granita is cold and sweet. “Thank you,” he says belatedly.  
  
She perches on the edge of her desk and tries her own cup of granita. “Why are you brooding?” she asks, a few spoonfuls in.  
  
“I’m not _brooding_ ,” he automatically defends himself.  
  
“Sitting in your room staring at your computer? Trying to fix a problem halfway across the world?”  
  
Jongin leans back in his chair. Dryly, he asks, “So what am I supposed to do? The problem won’t fix itself.”  
  
“I’m sure something will turn up,” she says breezily. She swings her feet. The material of her sundress brushes against Jongin’s knee. “Anyway, you’re in Sicily. Enjoy yourself a bit.”  
  
Jongin shifts his leg away. “I’ve been enjoying it.”  
  
She raises an eyebrow disbelievingly. “Take a walk. Clear your mind.”  
  
Jongin takes Sofia’s advice, pushes away thoughts of betrayal and obfuscation, leaving his windows open as he walks around the perimeter of the cottage.  
  
The sun’s beginning to dip below the horizon. Cicadas call noisily. A faint breeze murmurs.  
  
Jongin thinks that if he could give Sicily to Sehun for a single hour, it would be this one. He would give it away, knowing that in this hour, the sun will slip away soon, and the dark night that comes to thieve the last light would also take away any heartache.  
  
The wind rustles the tall grass in quiet susurration; the smell of smoke from an extinguished candle still lingers. Everything is still and lush.  
  
Almost perfect.  
  
  
  
Fridays are good days.  
  
Sofia goes to the market on Fridays, early enough that she gets the first pick of all the fresh produce. She returns, just before noon, with the ripest tomatoes, the plumpest grapes and most delicious selection of fish, scales still shiny and firm flesh still cool to the touch.  
  
In turn, the cook makes the most delicious foods on Fridays: rice croquettes, pasta with tomatoes, garlic, almonds and basil; fresh sardines and wild fennel, and of course, cannoli.  
  
Jongin first met Sehun on a Friday.  
  
(Slept with him on Saturday and left him Sunday, only to meet him again on a Monday -- but that’s another story.)  
  
Anyway, this particular Friday, Sofia’s phone chimes with a new text just before she leaves for the market. Jongin would join her, but they both decided it’d be better to be cautious.  
  
Sofia scoops her phone off the kitchen counter, acrylic nails clicking as she taps out a reply.  
  
“Anyone interesting?”  
  
Sofia smiles. “Quite.”  
  
“Really?” Jongin’s sitting on the piano bench, flipping through a worn book of sheet music.  
  
“Very.” She looks at her screen intently. “Would you like to see your man again?”  
  
“Who?” Jongin frowns.  
  
“You know, the one with the long legs and pretty face.”  
  
“Sehun?” Jongin asks, incredulously.  
  
“That’s the one,” she replies, still tapping, the clack of her nails obnoxiously loud.  
  
“How did you get his number?”  
  
Sofia counters without looking up, “How do you think I got him to listen to me?”  
  
Before Jongin can parse through the implications of that particular statement, she continues. “I’ll pick him up,” she says airily. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be careful with him.” She winks and grabs her purse before leaving Jongin dumbstruck at the piano.  
  
  
  
Sehun comes to Sicily on a Friday.  
  
Jongin stands on the driveway, gravel uneven and abrasive under his shoes. He puts his hands in his pockets. He feels uncomfortably like a wife waiting for a husband to come home, like a sea creature cast ashore and waiting for the tide. He takes his hands out of his pockets.  
  
He waits until discomfort rides the edge of desperation, then heads back into the house. He walks from the kitchen to the piano. Half-heartedly he plucks out a few tunes, then walks back to the kitchen. He opens the window, and wind brushes the chiffon curtain.  
  
Gravel crunches and the sound of slow Italian floats through the open window.  
  
“ _Buon_ _giorno_ ,” a feminine voice says -- _good morning_.  
  
“ _Buon giorno_ ,” Sehun repeats haltingly, to which Sofia laughs.  
  
“ _La capisco benissimo_!” -- _I understood that_!  
  
Jongin pushes open the front door.  
  
Sehun looks -- he hasn’t changed. Not surprisingly, considering the fact that they’ve only been away from each other for a few weeks at most. His smile fades when he looks up.  
  
“I’m going for a swim,” Sofia smirks, glancing between Jongin and Sehun. “Have fun, Jongin.”  
  
“Thank you,” he remembers to call after her.  
  
Hips swaying and skirt swishing, she waves to them without looking back.  
  
“Hi,” Sehun says. He shoulders his bag and steps onto the porch.  
  
“Hey,” Jongin says. Without thinking of it, Jongin sways forward -- if Sehun is a whirlpool, then Jongin is the reef, sucked into the current.  
  
Sehun smiles, slow and familiar. His eyes slide shut. “Hey yourself,” he murmurs. When their mouths meet, it feels like homecoming.  
  
  
  
“Let me take your bags,” Jongin says, when they break away. Sehun tastes like lemon.  
  
“This is literally the middle of nowhere,” Sehun says, following Jongin up the steep stairs. He reaches out and loops two fingers into Jongin’s belt, but not to tug him back -- just to touch.  
  
“It’s safe,” Jongin says. He can’t tell if he feels relieved or exasperated. Unable to help himself, Jongin asks, “How did you get here?”  
  
“Where do you expect me to be?”  
  
Jongin pushes open the door to his bedroom. “Korea,” he says, honestly. Sehun wanders into the room behind him. He takes in the faded poster advertising a Bocelli concert, the shelves out of which books are splayed; his fingers trail over the edge of the desk, tap once on the closed lid of Jongin’s laptop.  
  
“I suspected,” Sehun says. He watches Jongin put down the bag next to Jongin’s own things. “The same bellhop who brought me caviar tried to bring me downstairs a few days before I left. Figured he was trying to get me back on a flight to Korea.”  
  
Jongin frowns. “Then -- how did you get here?”  
  
Sehun raises an eyebrow. “I left.”  
  
“But -- ”  
  
“I dropped one of your credit cards -- one of the ones signed under Kai, since they don’t know you’re Jongin as well. They don’t even know what you look like, actually. Anyway, when they rushed out to try and figure out if it was you who was using the card, I got into one of their computers.”  
  
“That was when you got Seunghyun’s files?”  
  
Sehun nods. He steps away from the desk. Jongin nudges their things under the bed with his foot and takes his laptop. They head back downstairs in unison.  
  
“When I was in there, I disabled the tracker they put on me -- ”  
  
Jongin whirls around as they’re halfway on the stairs; he grabs Sehun’s arm and yanks him close. “They put a tracker in you?” he asks, part disbelieving, part angry.  
  
“Not in me,” Sehun amends, “It was just an external device. I messed it up, made it seem like I was going to France.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“Then I bought tickets with another one of your cards -- thanks for that, by the way -- to Paris.”  
  
They meander into the backyard. Jongin guides Sehun to the garden table with a hand on the small of his back. They sit.  
  
“They weren’t watching the airport?”  
  
“Oh, they were. But I bought the ticket right before the plane took off -- they didn’t have enough time to get to the airport in time, and now, don’t know if you’re in France or not.”  
  
Jongin rubs his own cheek, deep in thought. “How did you get here?”  
  
Sehun smirks without warmth. “I let them come to their own conclusions. They let their guard down. Jiyong left some cash lying around.”  
  
“You’re a dangerous man.”  
  
“Someone needs to keep you on your toes,” Sehun says, not without bite. “But I wasn’t saying that to fish for compliments.” He hesitates. “They think you released those names. That’s why they’re after you.”  
  
Jongin says flatly, “I didn’t.”  
  
“I know that,” Sehun sounds irritated, “But why do they think that?”  
  
“ _They_ don’t think that -- whoever hired them, thinks that.”  
  
“Well -- who hired them?”  
  
For lack of anything better to do with his hands, Jongin brushes a stray leaf off of the table. “I think my father did.”  
  
“No,” Sehun furrows his eyebrows, “I mean who hired Jiyong?”  
  
Jongin silently opens up his laptop and shows Sehun the files, one by one.  
  
Sehun’s expression turns stony. “Are you serious?” he looks up.  
  
Jongin looks away. “Are you?” he asks somberly. “These are the files that you sent me on the flash drive.”  
  
“There has to be a mistake. Didn’t he -- your father, he knew that you were involved with EXO -- ”  
  
“He did.”  
  
Sehun grabs the laptop and tugs it closer. He leans in and taps aggressively, scrolling a few times before saying, “But it says here -- Kim Namki didn’t hire Jiyong directly, there were -- ”  
  
“Partners of partners, receipts for receipts.” Jongin crosses his arms and stretches out his legs. His ankle brushes against Sehun’s calf. “That was on purpose. Covering up the trail. Even if someone else hired Kwon Jiyong, it was _for_ my father.”  
  
“If you don’t get the company,” Sehun abruptly changes the subject, “Then who does? Who’s next in line?”  
  
“Heechul, obviously.”  
  
“You know, Jiyong didn’t believe me when I told him you were innocent.”  
  
Jongin uncrosses his arms at that and sits up straight. “You told him I was innocent?”  
  
Sehun gives Jongin an exasperated look. “Because you are.”  
  
“I fucking know I am,” Jongin hisses, “But you just further implicated yourself into this -- if he thinks you know something -- ”  
  
“I certainly do know a thing or two about this,” Sehun mutters dryly.  
  
“Take this seriously! If he puts his mind to it, you won’t be _safe_ , Sehun -- ”  
  
“I was trying to say that someone framed you for this,” Sehun cuts across Jongin sharply. “Without you, the company would go -- ”  
  
“It’s not Heechul!”  
  
“You’re sure?”  
  
“I’m sure,” Jongin insists. “I’ve known him my whole life and he’s only ever done good for me.”  
  
“You can’t possibly think that your own _father_ would send these thugs after you.”  
  
“It was Sun,” Jongin says, the thought coming to him apropos of nothing.  
  
“I -- what? The man you met in Bangkok?”  
  
“Remember?” Jongin’s anger evaporates as he begins to piece things together. “I was avoiding him for a while -- I didn’t want to work with him anymore, and kept backing out of deals. In Yokohama, I ended things… abruptly. He must’ve noticed, and told someone.” Jongin frowns. “He must’ve been the whistleblower. But I don’t know who -- ”  
  
“It doesn’t matter now,” Sehun dismisses, “What matters is who hired Jiyong to get you for it.”  
  
Jongin’s gut twinges. “It was my father, I’m sure of it.”  
  
Sehun visibly hesitates. “Why are you so sure?”  
  
“The trails, the way the paperwork was handled, the people he asked. Every time he wants under the table work done, that’s the way he masks his trail. That’s the way he cleans up after himself. It’s his style.”  
  
“So maybe it was Kim Namki,” Sehun says slowly, pursuing his lips. “So -- he wanted to find who was storing all of those files, and who leaked them.”  
  
The back of Jongin’s skull throbs. He wants to sleep.  
  
“What if that was true?” Sehun asks, looking intently at Jongin.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“What if your father hired Kwon Jiyong to find who put all of EXO’s files online?”  
  
Jongin presses three fingers to his temple. “I don’t follow.”  
  
“He puts company first -- you told me this -- he puts it before family, friends, everything.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jongin agrees bitterly. “He does.”  
  
“Whoever leaked the information about EXO had details on everyone. That means that the whistleblower was in deep, probably a linchpin in EXO. And the press -- everything said about you hurt the company. Hurt the image, the reputation, the shares, whatever, right?”  
  
“So…”  
  
“So Kim Namki wants the truth. He wants to find the whistleblower and make them confess -- right now, all the media knows is that you were on that list of names. If he can get someone to tell them the truth, that you were barely involved, then that would clear all speculation from you, and turn attention toward the root of the problem instead.”  
  
Jongin wants to throw up.  
  
Oh, Sehun -- open, honest, earnest Sehun.  
  
“Fuck,” Jongin breathes out, cradling his head in his hands. He’ll tell him. Eventually.  
  
When Jongin comes up for air a second later, Sehun looks concerned. “Jongin?”  
  
“‘M fine,” Jongin manages. “Thank you. For -- for everything.”  
  
Lost in their own thoughts, they’re both quiet for a bit.  
  
Then Sehun says quietly, “They won’t be able to track us. Not for a few days anyway."  
  
“Let’s stay here,” Jongin says abruptly. “Sofia returns home on Sunday, in three days.” Jongin licks his lips nervously. “Let’s -- let’s just stay. Until then.”  
  
“And then what?”  
  
There’s a stray strand of hair at the back of Sehun’s neck. Jongin reaches out and smooths it down gently.  
  
“We’ll figure it out then,” Jongin promises. “I just… I just want to enjoy this while we can.  
  
Sehun breathes out. He looks away. He looks back at Jongin. “Okay,” he says. Jongin had fully been expecting him to say no.  
  
Jongin’s breath stutters, skips a beat, tripping over that one word, that one word which Sehun uttered so easily. Disbelievingly, Jongin repeats, “Okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Tentatively, Jongin smiles. He’ll tell Sehun, soon.  
  
  
  
Jongin gives Italy to Sehun in the only way he can.  
  
He shows Sehun the fresh and untamed garden, gives him ripe tomatoes and yellow summer and wild herbs. Plump grapes and pressed flowers and a breakfast of fig and honey. Sunlight. They walk side by side, backs of their hands brushing too often to be accidental. Jongin watches, transfixed, as Sehun walks, as he eats, talks -- the perfect curve of his neck, the way his lip purses. Jongin doesn’t touch.  
  
In the garden they share meals under the fractured shade of olive trees. There’s the clinking of ice in lemonade, the smell of fresh herbs. Music, drifting in from the ancient radio in the kitchen. Let them stay like this, Jongin thinks. Listening to the warbling music, perpetually on replay. Let them stay like this, Jongin wishes.  
  
He gives Sehun an afternoon in the rippling creek, kisses him slowly as the water laps at their ankles, their knees. From the piano, he gives Sehun a few lines of Bach, a page or two of Chopin. Knowing their time is quickly slipping away from them, Jongin has to pick and choose.  
  
Fine wine and laughter and the smell of smoke from an extinguished candle. Sehun in the kitchen: powdered sugar in his hair and sunlight pooling around his wrists. In the evening, their limbs tangling in clean sheets, with the hum of cicadas wafting in through perpetually open windows. The sheer curtains dance in the night zephyr. Perfect.  
  
(It goes like this:  
  
In bed, skin fresh and clean, smelling like the river. Sunkissed -- they smell like the sun. The smoke of wax candles and roasted figs -- they smell like summer. Time has slowed, congealed into slow, golden liquid, like the sedate sunlight spreading over their sheets, spilling in through the window -- the windows, open, like always, letting in the afternoon.  
  
“...and when he saw me writing the letter, he asked, ‘Is that to your girlfriend?’”  
  
Jongin chuckles. “Did you say yes?”  
  
Sehun closes his eyes and rests his head on Jongin’s chest. Their legs are intertwined, swimming trunks still slightly damp where they press against skin, but neither of them cares. Ringlets of wet hair curl at the nape of Sehun’s neck. Just because he can, Jongin leans in to press his mouth against them.  
  
Sehun goes, “Of course, I did. Then he goes on and asks what she’s like -- ”  
  
“What’s she like?”  
  
“Oh,” Sehun says vaguely, “You know.” He rolls them over, the hem of his loose shirt catching on the wet band of Jongin’s swimming trunks. “Nice smile. Long legs.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Jongin replies distractedly, when Sehun rolls their bodies together in a delicious, deliberate drag. He stares up into Sehun’s face, desperately, vainly trying to memorize the features there: the freckle under his left eye, the curl of his lashes against his cheek, the shape of his upper lip. Every second that passes is a second closer to when they must leave.  
  
Jongin barely hears it when Sehun replies, “Oh, yeah. Fantastic mouth, too.”  
  
Sehun captures said fantastic mouth with his own, and they rut against each other, hips stuttering, breaths hitched and mingling in the shared space between their throats, their mouths. They don’t bother with their shirts or swimming trunks; just gasp into each other’s open lips, fingers clumsily gripping bedsheets, clutching skin, hair. Jongin ruts too hard, grips and clutches too tight. Imperfect.  
  
The imprint of Sehun’s front teeth are still pressed into Jongin’s bottom lip when he realizes what he’s trying to do:  
  
Jongin -- in between each slow rock of Sehun’s body against his, in between each breath -- is trying to remember, as best he can. He wants to preserve this sunlit moment, capture it in amber like insects in tree resin. In the future, when this all inevitably goes down the drain, Jongin wants to have at least this, the memory, the idea of Sehun here, in Italy, with him.  
  
Jongin wants it so badly, he’s stealing time from the present, hoarding it later, for the future.  
  
Greedy.)  
  
  
  
Time passes.  
  
Jongin thinks that this is the Sicily that they will leave behind: the inky blue Ionian sea, dry hills curving out of fog; an abundance of apricot, fish, olives, eggplant, and blood orange; irreplicable serenity.  
  
Sicily is also happens to be home to the best pistachios Jongin has ever had the pleasure of tasting; they are sweet and fat and irresistible. Sehun uses gelato as an obvious medium to enjoy them, but also dresses cannoli with pistachios, crusts these beautiful steaks of grilled swordfish with them, crushes the nuts into a basil-pistachio pesto that they have with caramelized brussel sprouts.  
  
Having immediately hit it off with their cook, Sehun spends a good amount of time experimenting in the kitchen, spoon-feeding Jongin. When Jongin asks the cook why their pistachios are so delicious, he points to the mountainous volcano in the distance. “The earth, the lava in the earth and the minerals in the lava -- it is the soil that makes the seed.”  
  
It is the evening of their third day in Sicily.  
  
Today they enjoy pistachios raw, straight from the shell. With dinner resting warm and heavy in their bellies, Jongin, Sehun, and Sofia linger at their round table in the backyard. String lights extend from the porch to the gnarled tree across the garden, dangling faint yellow light onto their table.  
  
To Sehun, Sofia fires something off in Italian -- too fast for Jongin to understand, but her sultry tone and the curve of her mouth suggest a less than innocent meaning. Sehun flushes and hides a smile in his cup of lemon granita.  
  
Slower, she says to Jongin, “He’s a good student, but very easy to rile up, no?”  
  
Jongin just smiles faintly.  
  
Sofia has been attempting to teach Sehun Italian -- for all of her teasing, Jongin knows that Sofia likes them pretty too. Despite the fact that Sehun doesn’t understand most of their lesson, Sehun generally smiles in the right places, picking up cues from body language and Sofia’s forthcoming laughter.  
  
It doesn’t mean anything; Sofia’s bound to leave any minute now, head into town to meet some of her friends at a local bar.  
  
But Jongin still curls his fingers into the tablecloth, looks away when Sehun’s cheeks stain with blush under the low yellow light.  
  
“She’s quite a character,” Sehun murmurs lowly into Jongin’s ear, much later, after Sofia’s left in a whirlwind of pecks to the cheek and perfume.  
  
“She is,” Jongin agrees. He lets Sehun take his hand, lead him up the narrow spiral staircase.  
  
The door to the balcony is open.  
  
Barefoot, Sehun walks across the floor in the moonlight. He leans against the railing and looks out to the Italian countryside before them.  
  
Jongin hangs back, behind the threshold into the cool night. He takes Sehun in, from head to toe, as he stands against the metal edge of the balcony, against the world beyond. Jongin feels a sudden and fierce desire to burn this image, this moment, into his thoughts. No matter what happens, they will never be these people again.  
  
Jongin says, “We should talk.”  
  
Sehun squares his shoulders. “Alright.”  
  
In all honesty, they don’t have to, they don’t _need_ to, but Jongin -- he needs to have closure and Sehun needs to know. At Jongin, he isn’t a good person; he’s selfish and he’s rash and he _wants_ \--  
  
“I can’t go back to Korea,” Jongin says. He leans against the doorframe. “The news -- the whole thing, it’s a mess. So. I got tickets for you.”  
  
“You got tickets for me,” Sehun says, his tone undecipherable. Jongin wishes he would turn around, so he could see his face. “Back to Korea.”  
  
“I -- yes, I bought them last night.”  
  
“And what about what I want?”  
  
“What -- what do you want?”  
  
“What if I want to stay?”  
  
“Look, Jiyong’s going to catch up with me sooner or later, you can’t -- ”  
  
Sehun turns around, his expression closed off. “Did you even think about what I wanted?”  
  
“This is all about you,” Jongin says, his voice breaking, “When am I ever not thinking about you?”  
  
Sehun exhales unsteadily. Tilts his head back and stares into the dark, inky Sicilian sky. “You’re stupid,” Sehun says. “You’re _so_ \-- ”  
  
“Take a look at it from my point of view,” Jongin stands upright, “What am I supposed to do? What do you _want_ me to do?”  
  
“You’re _supposed_ to talk to me about things before you do them!”  
  
Jongin protests, “What are we doing now?”  
  
“You already bought the fucking tickets,” Sehun spits out, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Because you didn’t sign up for this!” Jongin exclaims. “Because this? This was supposed to be a -- a break, a vacation, not an international manhunt! If you got hurt -- ”  
  
“That’s your concern?” Sehun leans forward. “You think I can’t take care of myself? I got on fine before I met you -- ”  
  
“This is _different_ ,” Jongin hisses, “These people -- they’re _different_ , they don’t care, they’re ruthless, Sehun, please listen to me -- ”  
  
“The whole thing with Kwon Jiyong?” Sehun snaps. “Me, sending you those files, and throwing them off our trail? You’ve got to be kidding me -- ”  
  
“Maybe next time -- ”  
  
“I may not have experience like you, but I know what I know -- I’ve met people. Minseok fucking works with Yifan, how innocent do you think he is?”  
  
And that -- that’s a conversation for another time, Jongin thinks. The point is -- “The point is,” Jongin presses on, “I know what these people are capable of, I know this because I’ve _worked_ with them -- ”  
  
“You’ve told me multiple times.”  
  
Jongin blurts out, “I’m not -- I’m not who you think I am.”  
  
Sehun leans back, his spine touching the metal railing of the balcony behind him. He crosses his arms. “Explain.”  
  
Jongin steps closer. “I told you,” the words come out in a rush, spilling out from where they’ve been waiting, festering deep and rotten in his gut. “I told you in the beginning, I was getting out of EXO -- I was getting out of the dealings. And before, I said that I had… gotten involved, because we -- the company was already involved.”  
  
Sehun nods.  
  
“Well,” Jongin continues shakily. “That is true. But I thought I could be clever, I thought I could make the company some profit before leaving. I signed more deals, I -- I got in deep. Too deep. It wasn’t until Kris -- Yifan -- warned me a few years ago, it wasn’t until then that I realized how far I’d gotten.” Jongin goes on, “It was -- it was serious. I was using company funds left and right. I hired someone to cover my tracks. I couldn’t stop -- I just kept on… I just kept on going until Kris finally spoke up.”  
  
Sehun puts a hand over his mouth, looking downward.  
  
“Sehun,” Jongin says. His voice cracks.  
  
Flatly, Sehun asks through his fingers, “What else?”  
  
Jongin says, “Wh-what?”  
  
“What else did you do? When you were there?”  
  
Jongin swallows shakily. “I -- just the trading. Some dealing, some hustling.” Jongin steps forward again, and abruptly sinks to his knees. He kneels in front of Sehun -- a benediction. “Sehun, I’m not proud of it, but I did it. And if it weren’t for Yifan, I’d still be in, I’d still be like the rest of them, God, maybe worse, I don’t know -- ”  
  
Sehun looks down at him impassively. “Did you kill anyone?”  
  
“I -- what?”  
  
Sehun crosses his arms again. “Did you kill anyone?”  
  
“No,” Jongin shakes his head fervently, “No, I didn’t.” The cold floor beneath him is rough under his knees but Jongin doesn’t care, he’ll _beg_ , he just needs Sehun to know -- Sehun _has_ to know --  
  
“Did you hire someone to kill anyone?”  
  
“No,” Jongin whispers. He puts his hands over his mouth, stares down at Sehun’s feet. “I saw -- but I didn’t, I never -- ”  
  
“Get up.”  
  
Jongin looks up in confusion.  
  
Sehun’s face is lined with some unreadable emotion. “Get up,” Sehun snaps. “Get off your fucking knees.”  
  
“Sehun,” Jongin repeats, his skin crawling, his throat closing up like a fist, “I’m not -- ”  
  
“Get _up_ ,” Sehun grabs Jongin and hauls him upright, and for some unfathomable reason, pulls him.  
  
Jongin feels unsettled -- he sways forward, grabs onto the railing on either side of Sehun’s hips, bracketing him in; and Sehun fists two hands into the material of Jongin’s shirt.  
  
“You’re impossible,” Sehun breathes out, his eyes wide and his mouth slack.  
  
“I wanted to tell you,” Jongin starts, but Sehun interrupts. They’re close, they’re too fucking close, and Jongin can’t move, can’t think, can’t _breathe_ \--  
  
“What you did,” Sehun says lowly. “What you did wasn’t right.”  
  
“I -- ”  
  
“Listen to me _._ ” Sehun exhales and, faintly, Jongin feels his breath. Jongin tightens his hands on the metal railing; through his arms he feels the shudder of Sehun’s ribs as he inhales. “I knew -- I knew from Yokohama, from _Bangkok_ , what you were involved in.”  
  
“This is different, this is knowing that I willingly involved myself and the company for almost _two years_ \-- ”  
  
“ _Listen_ ,” Sehun says. “What you did -- what you were doing -- I knew it wasn’t right. And I didn’t want you to be involved. But you recognized that it was -- it was _wrong_ , and you eventually pulled yourself out of that fucking shit-show.”  
  
Jongin opens his mouth and Sehun silences him with a look. “ _You_ did that,” Sehun says. “I know that Yifan helped but -- ” he breathes heavily, “I am trying to make it so that I -- so that we can live with this. I knew what you were, and I accepted that. I accepted your mistakes. I followed you through that conflict of interest bullshit, I followed you to Italy. Now it’s your turn to accept me.”  
  
Jongin squeezes the railing; his knuckles turn white. “I’m giving you a chance to leave this,” Jongin rasps. “Because I’m -- I’m not a good man. I’ve done -- I did what I did, and now, I’m selfish. I’m greedy,” Jongin confesses. “I wanted you, I want you. That’s why I didn’t tell you until now -- ”  
  
“You think I didn’t know?” Sehun demands. “You think I didn’t know you were putting this off? I’m not blind, Jongin, I knew -- ”  
  
“Do you really?” Jongin retorts, leaning forward, pressing into Sehun’s space, boxing him in, as he’s encircled in Jongin’s arms and the railing behind him. “Do you really know?”  
  
When Sehun only stares at him, Jongin continues, “Because I don’t -- I don’t know how much I want -- ” Jongin forces himself to finish, “How much I want you. And it terrifies me. How badly I do. How I lose control.”  
  
“Don’t,” Sehun says, jerking his head abortively, “Don’t make this about that.”  
  
“About what?” Jongin leans close. “I’ll say it. I’ll fucking say it. You accept me? Accept this -- I love you, Oh Sehun.”  
  
Sehun exhales. Closes his eyes.  
  
“Take that how you will,” Jongin says, voice hoarse. This is what he will live with -- because if it’s one thing that Jongin knows, it’s that Sehun will never wear his emotions on his sleeve. He will never be as forthcoming with his thoughts or his feelings as Jongin is, and that’s just who he is. This is what Jongin will live with -- knowing that he loves someone who may never love him back.  
  
Sehun chokes out a rough, broken sound, jerking forward and grabbing two handfuls of Jongin’s hair.  
  
Sehun’s too close, Jongin can’t even look at him; their foreheads bump, their mouths touch briefly. Both of them are breathing raggedly, uneven, and the movement of their chests only brushes their lips on accident. Jongin doesn’t move to seal their mouths together, just lets them breathe like that, organic -- the only touch they share fleeting. Jongin hears, “I hate you, Kim Jongin. God, you’re impossible.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jongin exhales, “I know.”  
  
Sehun pushes him off. “You can never make it easy, can you?”  
  
Jongin feels punchdrunk, light-headed -- the whirlpool and the reef -- “For you? Never. I love a challenge.”  
  
Sehun looks at him long and hard, eyes wet and nose pink, before something in his expression relents; then he leans forward. “I know you fucking do,” Sehun mutters darkly, before pressing his mouth against Jongin’s.  
  
Jongin kisses him ungracefully, hard enough that he can taste the faint tang of blood, their teeth clacking messily and noses bumping clumsily. Imperfect.  
  
“I still have that ticket for you,” Jongin mumbles. He clutches Sehun’s thin waist much too tightly. “If you change your mind.”  
  
Sehun says tightly, “I told you once. Before we left Korea. I’m going to tell you again.” Sehun nudges Jongin’s chin, pushes his head up so their gazes can meet. “You’re stupid -- you’re so stupid, if you think I want to leave.” Sehun brushes his thumb against Jongin’s cheek lightly. His touch communicates more than he can otherwise. “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. I want to stay. If you’ll have me.”  
  
This is what Jongin will live with. He can live with this.  
  
“Yes,” Jongin rasps. “Yes, I’ll have you.”  
  
Sehun tilts his head. In that simple way of his, he replies, “Then have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the way I've portrayed Sehun here makes sense! I think he's much more reluctant to admit his emotions than Jongin. Instead, he communicates them through touch or action. 
> 
> On a more general note, I think this installment of this series is pretty different from the ones that came before it; I definitely spent a lot of time trying to build this beautiful world in Italy for them, and I wanted this story to be focused more on individual characters, introspection, and setting rather than the interactions between Sehun and Jongin. 
> 
> With that in mind, I hope that this idea of self-discovery came across -- giving Sehun and Jongin time to reflect on what they feel for each other by seeing and talking and explaining what they have to other people. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed! I've never been to Italy -- so please correct me if I am wrong in any setting details and/or customs! -- but really loved doing research for this story.
> 
> If the ending seems a bit rushed, it’s because I plan on writing more, fleshing out Sehun and Jongin’s interactions a bit more (so basically, more writing) as they eventually return to Korea and the mess they left behind. 
> 
> Until then!
> 
> Some references:  
> [Wisteria flowers](https://farm9.staticflickr.com/8708/16746688104_fcf768a40c_b.jpg)  
> [Bougainvillea flowers](http://wowwalldecals.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/14.jpg)
> 
> Recipes:  
> Jongin’s caponata [here](http://www.veryeatalian.com/sicilian-caponata/)  
> Chocolate chip ricotta cake [here](http://www.veryeatalian.com/chocolate-chip-ricotta-cake/)  
> Zucchini flowers [here](https://www.splendidtable.org/recipes/crisp-fried-zucchini-flowers)  
> Heirloom tomato & ricotta tart [here](http://www.veryeatalian.com/heirloom-tomato-ricotta-tart/)


End file.
